


Say It Again and Mean It

by ladyblahblah



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Communication Failure, Derek doesn't understand emotions, Future Fic, Knotting, M/M, Misunderstanding, Pack Dynamics, Unsafe Sex, because they entertain me, most of these problems could be solved if you'd just talk to each other, oblivious!Stiles, this is pretty much the least original thing ever, werewolf ducklings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-05
Updated: 2012-10-04
Packaged: 2017-11-11 11:30:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 39,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/478071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyblahblah/pseuds/ladyblahblah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>“No, I mean.”  She takes the note, flustered.  “Why are you so interested in helping?  You don't even know us.”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>  <em>Stiles swallows heavily, searching for the slender line between a lie and a truth that he doesn't want to speak.  “Because I have a soft spot for idiot teenaged werewolves,” he says finally.  “It's a character flaw."</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So sometimes you start talking with a friend about Stiles interacting with other packs and you end up with an idea about him taking a couple of stupid teenaged werewolves under his wing because he just can't help himself. And then the idea haunts you for weeks because you can't start writing it until you've finished something else, and you start to get bitter about everything that doesn't involve werewolves in some capacity.
> 
> Sometimes that's just what happens.
> 
> I'm not sure yet how long this is going to be, but be advised: the sexy things won't be happening until the end, and the rating here is in anticipation. Things will probably be hovering somewhere in the T range until then.

 

 

It's been a while since Stiles has wondered what his life might have been like if his best friend had never turned into a bona-fide creature of the night.

 

For the past few years, it just hasn't really been an issue. Stanford, after all, is miles and miles away from Beacon Hills, far removed from all of its freaky supernatural problems and politics. He has a life here—a normal, ordinary life. And yeah, sure, Scott is still a werewolf. But this far away from anything it just becomes another entry on a long list of character traits, no more or less important than him being a vet tech or a Dodgers' fan or a nervous father-to-be. He and Allison never visit during the full moon, anyway, so it's not like it makes a difference.

 

Today, however, for the first time in a long time, Stiles finds himself reflecting on how much less trouble he'd have to deal with if he hadn't convinced Scott to go looking for a body in the woods one night.

 

“Both of you. Sit down.” Stiles refuses to let his nerves get the better of him, focusing on peaceful, soothing thoughts. It's amazing how quickly it comes back to you. “We need to talk.”

 

Reyna and Nico Ramirez have been what Professor Boyle refers to as _problem students_ almost since the very start of the semester, and in the past month things have only gotten worse. Attitude problems were bad enough; now they're hardly bothering to come to class at all, not turning in their assignments half the time, and generally acting like they're sliding off the rails. Despite the different vantage point, Stiles can't help but find it all sort of horribly familiar.

 

“So.” He squeezes around to the other side of the desk in the tiny office he shares with the professor's other three T.A.s, taking a moment to study the pair sitting across from him. They're slouched in their seats, sullen and twitchy at the same time, and Stiles has to stifle a sigh at how _young_ they look. “Professor Boyle thinks you're on drugs,” he says bluntly, watching carefully as Nico's eyes widen even as Reyna's narrow.

 

“And?” she demands. Her body language is still relaxed and dismissive, but she's forcing it now; tension is written in every line of her body just as surely as it's making her brother tremble. “What's he going to do about it?”

 

“Tell the dean, for one thing. If you're suspected of breaking the university's code of conduct, there'll be an inquiry. Worst case scenario you're looking at is expulsion and jail time. I don't think that's going to happen.” He's deliberately keeping his hands on top of the desk, in plain sight. Nonthreatening body language is key if he doesn't want to have to rely on the emergency measures he has stashed in a bag at his feet. “Nevertheless,” he continues, “I don't think you want to invite the kind of scrutiny an official inquiry would mean.”

 

“I don't know what you're—”

 

“I don't think you're on drugs.” His assurance cuts Reyna off mid-snarl. “But that doesn't mean you have nothing to hide.” There's a thick manilla envelope resting under his hands; he picks it up and hands it across the desk, holding it patiently until Nico leans forward to grab it. “Those are copies of a dozen police reports filed over the past three weeks,” Stiles says as the two of them leaf through the pages, dark heads leaned close together. The sight makes his chest ache oddly, but he pushes the feeling aside and presses on. “You may notice that almost all of them involve a couple matching your description, that—”

 

“We're not a _couple_ ,” Nico snaps, a horrified expression on his face as he looks up, and Stiles has to stifle a snort.

 

“A couple of _people_ ; get your mind out of the gutter, kid.” He shakes his head. “The _point_ is, you're not exactly keeping a low profile. Which is really, incredibly stupid, because your control isn't exactly stellar right now, and how do you think you're gonna handle the full moon if you get thrown in jail?”

 

They both go suddenly, preternaturally still, two matching pairs of deep brown eyes locked on him. Though they aren't identical, it's moments like that make it almost painfully obvious what they really are. The two of them are more tuned to each other than any siblings Stiles has ever seen—more than  _anyone_ he's ever known before, come to that, and he can't help but wonder what that connection must mean when the chips are down. The witness reports he'd dug up had made specific mention of their coordination, of the way they'd moved like they knew what the other would do before it ever happened. It had been enough to confirm the suspicion that had been gnawing at Stiles's mind since the beginning of the term.

 

And now he's wondering again if it was  _really_ such a good idea to lock himself in his office with a pair of adolescent werewolf twins.

 

“Screw this,” Nico growls—an actual, full-throated _growl_ that has Stiles scrambling to retain his calm. His eyes are flashing gold as he stands, full of all the ferocity that seems to have drained out of his sister. “Reyna, let's go.” She rises to follow him, and as intense as Stiles's instinctive relief is to be rid of dangerous predators in an enclosed space, he knows that he can't just let them leave. Not before they understand.

 

“I said, _sit_.” 

 

There's a snap to this voice that never fails to impress the other T.A.s; a natural teacher, they call him, and there's no way for him to explain that it's less about instinct and more about years of observing alpha werewolves in their natural environments. It doesn't seem like he'll have to explain to Reyna and Nico, however. They stop in their tracks, quivering like they're on point before they quickly drop back into their chairs.

 

“Good,” Stiles says, and the way the tension drops out of their shoulders would be comical if the situation weren't so dire. “You need to get it through your heads that the _only_ reason Professor Boyle hasn't already reported you is because I told him I had a friend in high school who went through the same thing. I convinced him to let me try to get through to you. Do you understand? I'm on your side here, but unless you actually _let me help you_ there's not a damned thing I can do.”

 

“Why?” Reyna's jaw is clenched, her voice unsteady like she's fighting back tears. “Why does he care if you help us? Why do _you_?”

 

Stiles does sigh now. “Because he sees the same thing I do: a couple of bright kids with a lot of potential who are in way over their heads. Believe it or not, not every adult is out to get you.”

 

“Adult? You're barely older than us,” Nico snorts, back to sullen again.

 

“Four whole years; though given your maturity levels, it might as well be fifty.” Stiles glares across the desk, pleased and, yes, a little bit relieved when Nico breaks eye contact first. “Now. You're betas, right? Where's your alpha?”

 

“Gone.” Reyna's voice is still a little shaky, but there's something hard as steel beneath it now. “That big storm we had here about a month ago—he was driving out by the bay. Lost control.” She reaches up to swipe angrily at the tears sneaking their way down her face. “He never could drive worth shit.”

 

“That was in the paper,” Stiles says slowly. Single-car accident; the wreck was salvaged two days later, with a single body recovered. Death by drowning, the article had said. “I'm sorry. What about the rest of your pack? It wasn't just the three of you, was it?”

 

“Hardly more than,” Nico says. He's reached over to take his sister's hand, though it seems that neither of them have really noticed that yet. “The rest of them scattered. It's just us now.”

 

“Shit.” Stiles runs a hand over his face. “ _Shit_. Okay.” He looks at the clock, bites back the urge to curse again. “We're almost out of time; we've got about another five minutes before Teresa gets here for her office hour.” He snags a Post-It from Kyle's jealously hoarded stash and scrawls out his address. “Meet me at my apartment at seven tonight; this conversation's gonna take a hell of a lot longer than we have now.”

 

“Why?” Reyna asks, and Stiles rolls his eyes.

 

“Because you clearly need someone looking out for you. And because you'll get dinner out of the deal. In the meantime, keep your eyes open. If anything doesn't feel right, call me.” He jots his phone number below the address and hands the note over. “Bring a couple of green peppers with you, too; I don't have time to go to the store.”

 

“No, I mean.” She takes the note, flustered. “Why are you so interested in helping? You don't even know us.”

 

Stiles swallows heavily, searching for the slender line between a lie and a truth that he doesn't want to speak. “Because I have a soft spot for idiot teenaged werewolves,” he says finally. “It's a character flaw. Remember: seven o'clock.”

 

“I don't like green peppers,” Nico says, looking more than a little dazed now as they both stand and gather their book bags.

 

“Yeah, well, I do. Price of admittance, man. Now get out of here, and try not to get yourselves killed before dinner.”

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I guess it's possible after tonight's episode (OH GOD SOMEONE HOLD ME ;_;) that this may be swiftly becoming AU. :lol: I'd like to keep it canon-compliant, but I'd also like for _my heart not to be completely crushed_ , so we'll just have to see how it goes. The finale next week could change everything.
> 
> Meanwhile, for those of you who, like me, feel in desperate need of something that isn't an endless series of soul-crushing disaster, here! Have some pack-mama!Stiles.

 

The sun hasn't quite set when Stiles makes it home, his bag stuffed full of term papers that he couldn't possibly want to grade less. His apartment is a tiny one-bedroom on the top floor of a six-story walkup, chosen nominally for its proximity to campus but really for its complete inaccessibility through the windows unless you were _actually_ Spider-Man. Old habits die hard, and having his bedroom become a sort of werewolf Grand Central Station for the majority of his high school career instilled in him a certain amount of what he feels is justifiable paranoia. When he reaches his door and finds it intact, the hallway clear of any suspiciously lurking figures, Stiles breathes a sigh of relief; at least his wayward babes haven't chosen to take his invitation as permission to wander in and set up shop like they own the place.

 

You can never rule that kind of thing out when you're dealing with werewolves; Stiles can say that from experience.

 

He drops his bag by the front door and hangs his coat in the front closet, chafing his hands together to warm them up. At least it's been dry lately—rain on top of this cold snap would be, he feels, more than a sane person would be expected to handle. He already has enough things testing the limits of his sanity; no need to add any more.

 

There's a giant bag of frozen chicken in his freezer, and he empties half of it onto a plate that he sticks in the microwave to defrost. Chicken is always a good choice in these situations, he's found, despite the inevitable bitching about the lack of red meat. _Cheap_ , _filling_ , and _versatile_ are the keywords, and as one of the few members of the—of his group of friends who could cook, by the time he was eighteen he'd played host to more freaky werewolf dinner parties than he could count.

 

Funny how easily he slips back into the role.

 

Except he's not, he reminds himself sternly, heading into the bedroom to change. This is a temporary thing, just him helping out a couple of kids who will quite literally get themselves killed if left to their own devices. The act of a good Samaritan, he thinks as he tugs on a worn pair of jeans and the Batman t-shirt Erica gave him three Christmases back. Because he's got too soft a heart for his own good, and he's not going to let anyone get hurt if he can help it, but that doesn't mean he's in this for the long-haul. He just doesn't do that sort of thing anymore.

 

He's reaching for his red hoodie before he realizes it, freezing with his hand halfway to his closet even as he chides himself for being ridiculous. It's just a sweatshirt. His whole attitude towards the thing is idiotic; he hasn't even worn it in years, but no matter how many times he's moved, no matter how many trips he's made to Goodwill with bags of old clothes, there it stays. It's not haunted; it's not symbolic; it's a sweatshirt, and he's cold, and there's absolutely no reason why he shouldn't just put it on.

 

When he pulls his Stanford sweatshirt out instead, he tells himself it's just because he doesn't want to deal with puppies making Red Riding Hood jokes like they think they're the first ones who've ever thought of them. They're not, and he just doesn't have the patience for it right now.

 

Truth be told, he isn't entirely sure that they'll even show up. If he's honest, he'll admit that there's a better-than-average chance that he's making a massive stir-fry just for himself here. And that's fine, he thinks as he rinses the rice and dumps it into the cooker, grabs an onion from the top of the fridge and starts to chop it up. He can live off of the leftovers for a while, he'll have satisfied his compulsion to at least _try_ to help, and he can put the whole business behind him and get on with living his normal, ordinary life.

 

Right.

 

It's a quarter after seven when the knock finally comes, and Stiles leaves the chicken sizzling away on the stovetop as he goes to answer it, slinging a dishtowel over his shoulder along the way. He tries to dismiss the feeling of relief that hits him when he finds the Ramirez siblings waiting blank-faced on the other side of the door. There's no reason for him to be relieved, and certainly no reason for them to know about it. His amusement, however, when their carefully crafted apathy gives way to quivering interest as the scent of cooking food hits them—that he lets show openly.

 

“Hey, kids,” he grins. “Got your ticket?”

 

“Stop calling us kids,” Nico grumbles, tossing Stiles a fat green pepper as he pushes past him into the apartment, and Stiles rolls his eyes.

 

“Stop acting like one and you've got a deal. Reyna?”

 

“ _Some_ of us have enough manners to wait to be invited in,” she says pointedly, and Stiles can see Nico flinch out of he corner of his eye.

 

“Come on in.” He steps back, heading back into the cramped little kitchenette to give the chicken a toss. “Lock the door behind you,” he calls over his shoulder.

 

“Chicken.” Nico's already there, sniffing disdainfully at the cooking meat like he thinks Stiles won't notice the hunger in his eyes. “I wouldn't have bothered coming if I knew it was just gonna be chicken.”

 

“Well, the door's right there,” Stiles says calmly. “If you want red meat, buy it yourself and bring it over; that shit's expensive. Now _move_ , unless you want to finish cooking this yourself.”

 

Nico ducks his head and scurries out of the way. As Stiles stirs the chicken and starts cutting up the pepper he can hear Reyna hissing something at her brother in the living room, and the unmistakable sound of a hand smacking against the back of someone's head. He stifles a snort. It's all painfully familiar, and there's a part of him that half expects to step into the living room and realize that he's also stepped back in time. To find Boyd kicking Isaac's ass at Mario Kart as Erica eggs them on; Lydia painting her nails and trying her best to look disdainfully superior while Jackson drills for the Chemistry midterm; Scott and Allison in a corner, pretending that they aren't making out when no one else is looking; Derek—

 

Stiles shakes himself out of that train of thought and scoops the chicken onto a waiting plate, tossing in the veggies and giving the pan a shake. It's been a while since he went back to Beacon Hills, a while since he's seen most of his friends. Since he's seen his dad. Maybe he'll go up for a while in a couple of weeks, if things are settled here. All in all, he figures he's had worse ideas than spending his Spring Break back home.

 

“Um.” Stiles glances over to see Nico standing in the doorway, wearing an expression caught somewhere in between irritation and embarrassment. “Reyna said to—is there anything we can do to help?” he asks grudgingly, arms crossed defensively over his chest.

 

“Go ahead and get the plates down,” Stiles says, nodding at one of the cabinets. He dumps the chicken back in along with the measuring cup full of spices and soy sauce. “Shit. Are you guys okay with spicy? I forgot to ask.”

 

“Yeah, we can handle heat.” Reyna has appeared in the doorway as well, looking amused as her brother shoves the plates at her chest.

 

“How about chopsticks?”

 

“Uh.” She glances at Nico, who shrugs. “Those not so much.”

 

“Forks it is, then. Nico, go ahead and start dishing up the rice.” Stiles hands him a large spoon and slaps a lid over the stir-fry. “This'll be done in a few minutes.”

 

“Is your boyfriend going to be here tonight?” Reyna asks abruptly, and Stiles turns to stare at her. They're both of them shorter than he is—he's guessing Reyna isn't that much taller than Lydia, though she seems even smaller given that she favors ballet flats over stacked heels—and it hardly seems fair that they still manage to make it seem as if they're looming over him. Goddamned werewolves.

 

“I don't have a boyfriend,” he says easily enough, paused with his hand on the silverware drawer. His last relationship, sad to say, ended over six months ago. “You must be picking up on an old scent.”

 

“It's not old,” Nico says, his eyes oddly intense as they lock on Stiles's. “And it's all over the place.”

 

“If we're in another wolf's territory—” Reyna starts, and when Stiles finally gets it he couldn't stop his laughter if he tried. Which he doesn't.

 

“That's not my boyfriend,” he chuckles, finally opening the drawer to pull out the forks. “That's my best friend. He came to visit for a while last month, but he doesn't live here in town. This is _my_ territory; no one else's.”

 

“Might wanna tell him that,” Nico mutters, but the tension in his shoulders bleeds out, and he starts scooping rice onto the plate Reyna's holding.

 

It's not worth arguing over, so Stiles just rolls his eyes and gives the stir-fry a final quick stir before he dishes it out. They back out of the kitchen and wait for him to pass, eyes tracking the food he's carrying with an intensity that would freak him out if not for the fact that it's nothing he hasn't seen before. He sets two of the plates on the coffee table and takes a seat in the single chair, leaving the futon free for the two of them.

 

“Dig in,” he says when they just stand there, uncertain, and they fall on the food like they've just been waiting for permission. They're all but inhaling it, and they make it through several mouthfuls before Nico's eyes go wide and he starts to cough, cheeks bulging out like he can't manage to swallow his last bite.

 

“ _Shit_ ,” he finally manages to gasp, tears springing up in the corners of his eyes as he leaps up and sprints into the kitchen.

 

“Glasses are above the sink,” Stiles calls after him, trying to smother a smirk as he turns to Reyna. “I thought you said you two could handle heat?”

 

“He's a big baby,” she shrugs, still attacking her own serving. “Hey,” she shouts, leaning over to snag the peppers that Nico's pushed to the side of his plate, “bring me some water while you're at it.” After a moment's thought she steals one of his snap peas as well, and munches thoughtfully on it as she stares at Stiles, openly considering him. “Not that I'm not grateful for dinner and for . . . well, everything. But. You're weird,” she says at last, and then it's Stiles's turn to choke.

 

“Yeah,” he manages to cough out after a moment, laughing as he tries to catch his breath. “Believe it or not, you're not the first person to ever say that.”

 

“I bet she's the most annoying, though,” Nico says, coming back in the room with a glass in each hand. He sets the water down in front of his sister and quickly snatches one of the peas from her plate. “Thief,” he accuses her. To Stiles, he adds, “You're out of milk.”

 

“Of course I am,” Stiles says dryly, eyeing the brimming glass of it that Nico's sipping from. “Okay, if we're done with the preliminaries, it's time for you two to sing for your supper. Tell me what happened to your pack.”

 

They go stiff again, but only for a moment before Reyna shrugs and slaps away her brother's hand that's absently reaching for her plate again, pulling her food out of reach as she settles back into the cushions. “We moved up here from just outside Goleta.” Her voice is casual, but Stiles doesn't miss the way she's curled her legs under her so that her feet are pressed firmly against her brother's leg. “A new pack moved in, took over. We couldn't hold our territory. Our alpha . . .” She shrugs again, takes another bite. “Well, he wasn't a very good one.”

 

“How can you say that?” Nico demands, eyes flashing gold as he turns on his sister. “He took care of us after Mom and Dad died, he _always_ watched out for us—”

 

“He was a good man,” Reyna snaps, “but he was a bad alpha. And you know it.”

 

Nico's still seething, but he doesn't argue. Stiles waits a moment until he's certain that the flare-up's passed.

 

“I know how that is,” he offers, and earns himself a matching pair of thoughtful glances. “So, you had to leave. Why Stanford? There are already a few established packs in the area; trying to carve out territory here is the next best thing to suicidal.”

  
“Yeah.” Nico's gone back to eating, pausing between bites for careful sips of milk. “We weren't ever going to settle here, but Reyna and I'd gotten scholarships, and . . .” He glances at Stiles and quickly back down at his plate. “Well, we didn't really have anywhere else to go.”

 

“Scholarships?”

 

“We test well,” Nico says defensively. “We're both National Hispanic Scholars, and Reyna's National Merit, too.”

 

“Hey, not trying to cast aspersions on your characters here,” Stiles assures him. “But given your work ethic this term, you can't blame me for being a little bit surprised.”

 

They both flush at that. “We haven't been . . . it's hard to explain, but maybe you . . . it's upsetting, not having territory of your own,” Reyna explains. “Unsettling. It makes you sort of twitchy and aggressive all the time. Makes it hard to concentrate. And then, after Marcus died . . .”

 

“That was your alpha, I take it? You said the rest of the pack scattered.”

 

“We were barely holding together as it was.” Reyna deposits her empty plate on the table and stands up, pacing around the room, fiddling with picture frames and books and the various random pieces of Stiles's life as she goes. “The police report on the accident came back, and everyone just . . . left. They didn't even tell us they were going.” She turns back to him, chin high and shoulders back, and she looks so young that Stiles's heart can't help but break a little for her. “It's just me and Nico now.”

 

“Omegas,” Stiles says, and Nico surges to his feet.

 

“We're not. We're _pack_.” He goes to stand by his sister. “We may just have the two of us, but—”

 

“Listen to me.” Stiles puts steel back in his voice, nodding his approval when they both lower their heads. “You may _feel_ like pack, but you don't have an alpha, which means that as far as any others are concerned—as far as _hunters_ are concerned if they get wind of you—you're omegas. Unless one of you feels like stepping up and taking leadership . . .” They exchange glances, and he sighs. “Yeah, I didn't think so. You _need_ an alpha. Damn it, you should already know this; you were born, not bitten, weren't you?”

 

Reyna blinks at him. “How'd you know that?”

 

“Experience. Situational bitchiness aside, you don't have that 'high on power' thing that most betas seem to get when they're turned. You act like it's just a part of you; like it always has been. And you actually dress like normal people instead of extras on a heavy metal photoshoot,” he adds, which has the two of them exchanging baffled looks.

 

“What the hell kind of wolves have you been hanging around?” Nico asks.

 

“None, lately.” Stiles swallows and gathers up the plates, carrying them to the kitchen. “Aside from my friend Scott; he's the one whose scent the two of you have been trying to cover up for the past half hour,” he adds, and a glance over his shoulder confirms that they're both looking a little guilty now. “I passed my misspent youth in Beacon Hills, though, with the pack there.”

 

“Where's Beacon Hills?”

 

“Up north.”

 

“That's where you knew the crappy alpha?”

 

“He wasn't—” Stiles catches himself before he can get defensive. “It wasn't that he was crappy, really, just . . . inexperienced. He was inexperienced.”

 

“What happened?” Reyna asks, following him into the kitchen to snatch another chunk of chicken while Stiles dumps the plates in the sink.

 

“He figured out the way things had to work,” he says shortly. “Which is what you two need to do. C'mon, back it up. Seriously, what is it with werewolves not understanding personal space? You two,” he says, dropping back into his chair, “need a pack. There are a couple I know of around here that might take you in.”

 

“That, um. Might be a problem.” Reyna sprawls at one end of the futon, tugging Nico down to take the other, both of them apparently having taken Stiles's acknowledgement of their scent-marking as tacit permission to go on without bothering to hide it. “I don't think Marcus ever exactly formally announced that we were here.”

 

“Oh for—you've gotta be kidding me,” Stiles groans, burying his face in his hands. “Nico, man, no offense, but your sister was right; this guy was _really fucking bad_ at his job. You're lucky none of you have been scented by now—you'd have gotten torn to shreds. Okay. Look, this isn't a . . . okay, no, it _is_ a problem, but it's fixable.” He sighs, scrubs his hands over his head, and regroups. “The packs around here know Scott; he drops by whenever he comes to visit, _like you're supposed to do_ ,” he says sternly. “And they know who I am, more or less; I might be able to get a meeting with their alphas. We'll sort this out, and then see if maybe any of them would be willing to take you in.”

 

“What if we don't want to just join up with some random pack?” Nico protests, and Stiles jabs a finger at him.

 

“You suck it up, is what. You two are babes in the woods right now, and you need the shelter that a pack will give you, get it? Maybe they'll be willing to just give you sanctuary while you're here, but you need _something_. Come on, _I_ know how this goes, so I know you do, too. The lone wolf dies . . .”

 

“But the pack survives,” they finish together, unhappy and uncomfortable, but at least no longer arguing.

 

“Neither of you are going to die if there's anything I can do about it, all right?” Stiles says. “No one is. In the meantime, you two are going to keep your heads down, you're going to stop acting like juvenile delinquents, and you're going to _go to class_ , are we clear?”

 

“Yes, Mom,” Nico mutters, and Reyna kicks him even as she smothers a giggle.

 

“I'm serious,” Stiles scowls. “Both of you need to ace the final if you want to even _pass_ Professor Boyle's class, and I'm guessing you're not doing much better in any of your others, either. My generosity absolutely does not extend to paying your tuition if you lose your scholarships, and if you're not in school things are gonna get really freaking hard, really fast. I'll try to get a meeting as soon as I can so things can get settled, but you've gotta meet me halfway.”

 

“If you're going to be meeting with the alphas, maybe we should go with you,” Reyna suggests, and Stiles shakes his head emphatically.

 

“No, _no_ , that's absolutely the _last_ thing you should be doing. They'd eat you alive on basic principle, so you two are going to stay far, far away from these little pow-wows, got it? What _you_ can do,” he adds, “is start cleaning up the kitchen. Tupperware's in the far left cabinet if you guys don't finish off the rest of the food.”

 

“You're kidding,” Nico says, blinking at him.

 

“Do I _sound_ like I'm kidding? Consider this retribution for the 'Mom' crack.”

 

“Oh, come _on—_ ”

 

“Don't be an ungrateful little brat,” Reyna says, hauling her brother up. “It's a few dishes, what's the big deal? Besides,” she smirks, “maybe if we're good Mama will let us have dessert.”

 

“Fine. I call drying, though.”

 

“Whatever.” She shoves him ahead of her into the kitchen, but pauses in the doorway to look back at Stiles. “Mr. Stilinski?”

 

“Ugh.” He makes a face. “You've already eaten my cooking and impugned my masculinity, okay? I think we've moved past the need for formality, especially if it's gonna weird me out. Stiles.”

 

“Stiles,” she repeats, smiling faintly, but the expression quickly fades. “What . . . what happens if none of the packs will take us?”

 

“Well.” He smiles back at her and tries to keep his voice confident. “We'll just have to cross that bridge when we come to it. Don't worry, okay? We'll work something out.”

 

Reyna nods, heading into the kitchen while Stiles tries to push the possibility to the back of his mind. There's another solution—there always is—but he really, truly hopes it doesn't come to that.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who may be confused, the alpha/beta/omega distinction is being used in this fic the way that it is used in the show; that is to say, an "omega" is a lone wolf, or one that is the last of its pack. It bears no relation to the kink trope (not sure what else to call it?), and doesn't change anything for them but the increased likelihood of being hunted. In case you weren't sure.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A.K.A. The chapter where Stiles tries with only moderate success to understand werewolf politics. If you're ever interested in (occasionally ridiculous) headcanon and insights into my writing process, and/or assorted fandom shenanigans, feel free to follow me on Tumblr, where I can be found as hungrylikethewolfie.

 

 

“Thanks again for agreeing to meet me, Ms. Amblyne.” Stiles picks up his coffee cup, turning it in his hands and letting the warmth sink into his skin. “I know you're. Ah. Busy.”

 

“Darling boy. No need to stand on ceremony; call me Bianca, please.”

 

The coffee shop is little more than a hole in the wall, a student sanctuary that's more or less deserted this early in the morning; she occupies the space like a queen, reclining at her ease on the ratty, secondhand chair in a tailored suit that probably cost more than his full month's rent. Her skin is smooth, a dark, rich contrast against the soft grey wool, and she's swept her black curls over one shoulder, leaving the other side of her neck distractingly bare. When she smiles at him he can't hide his shiver, and it only makes her smile wider.

 

“Do I make you nervous?”

 

“If I say yes, will that make you happy?” he asks.

 

“It might,” she says with a laugh in her voice. “I'd hate to think that I was losing my touch.” She glances up as the barista hurries over to their table with a freshly warmed muffin and a hesitant, hopeful expression. Bianca gives her an absent nod, but Stiles can't help but notice the hint of smug satisfaction on her face at the way the girl trips away. She catches him watching and shrugs. “An alpha can hardly expect to hold on to her territory if she can't even make a little human child tremble.”

 

“If trembling's all you're after, can I suggest maybe going about it another way?” Stiles shoots back despite his better judgement. “Candlelight. Soft music. Maybe some sweet-talk first.”

 

“Child, please.” She laughs outright at that. “I'm old enough to be your mother.”

 

“Yeah, well, you're rockin' the power suit, and the silver at the temples is pretty hot. Maybe the cougar thing is just doing it for me.”

 

“You _are_ an odd one,” Bianca muses, fixing him with a stare that's just a shade too intense to sit comfortably. “You may be nervous, but I don't smell _fear_ anywhere on you. You do realize, don't you, that you're speaking to the alpha of the largest and oldest pack within a hundred miles?”

 

“What can I say? I've always had a thing for strong women.”

 

Her lips quirk. “And the sound of your own voice, it seems.”

 

It's his turn to laugh now, and if it comes out sounding slightly hysterical he's sure she won't hold it against him.

 

“I guess you could say that. Yeah. Trust me, there isn't a power on this earth strong enough to shut me up for long; it's kind of my thing. But hey, if you're willing to try—”

 

“My mate would kill you for no more than the suggestion,” she warns him, and Stiles swallows heavily.

 

“Right. Um. Probably best to keep this little chat strictly professional, then.”

 

“Probably so.” Bianca breaks a chunk off of the top of the muffin and pops it into her mouth, licking at the purple stain the blueberries leave on her fingers in a way that Stiles is sure must be deliberate. The smirk that turns up her cherry-red lips just proves it, as Stiles shifts uneasily in his seat. “To business, then. I understand you've come into possession of a couple of strays.”

 

“ _Possession_ is such a . . . I'm helping them out, that's all.”

 

“Generous of you.”

 

“Not especially. Their alpha's dead, their pack is gone, and if someone doesn't rein them in they're gonna have every hunter in the area breathing down their necks. All it takes is one hunter off their nut to turn the whole system that you've all built here into chaos and bloodshed. Finding these two a new pack is in everyone's best interest.”

 

“An interesting point.” She takes a sip of her coffee and breaks off another piece the muffin. “Allow me to offer this in opposition: these pups have never presented themselves to me, or to any of the other area alphas. They've proven themselves to be undisciplined, uncontrolled, and dangerous. Can you offer me a terribly compelling reason why I should offer them a place in my pack rather than restrict them to neutral ground here, or else drive them out of the city as interlopers?”

 

“You can't do that!” Stiles protests, only to jerk back so abruptly that his chair actually scoots several inches away from the table when Bianca's eyes flash furiously.

 

“Do not presume to tell me my business, _pup_ ,” she snarls, and Stiles nods frantically.

 

“Sorry. Sorry.” He keeps his head down, eyes fixed on the table between them as his heart tries its level best to beat its way out of his ribcage. “That was . . . my mouth sort of goes on autopilot sometimes. My dad says I'm missing that filter people have that keeps them from saying really stupid things that will get them _literally eaten by wolves._ I mean, most people probably don't have to worry about that all that much, but you'd think someone who's been up-close-and-personal with werewolves would've developed one, or at least, like, learned to fake it by now, but—”

 

“Oh, relax.” She sounds more amused than angry now, and Stiles chances a glance up to see her rolling her eyes. “I'm hardly going to tear your throat out in a public place.”

 

“Thanks, that's . . . comforting.” Stiles manages to summon enough of a self-preservation instinct to bite back an ill-timed snarky retort. A minor miracle, really. “That was disrespectful,” he says after a moment. “I apologize. And, um.” He offers a weak laugh. “I'm fairly sure you _haven't_ lost your touch. In case you were wondering.”

 

“Trying with the sweet talk after all?” Bianca says dryly; Stiles manages a laugh then that sounds a little more like his usual.

 

“Whatever works. What I meant to say,” he goes on cautiously, taking a moment to measure his words before he speaks this time, “is that they're just kids, and I'd hope you wouldn't hold the actions of their alpha against them. Maybe they're a little undisciplined now, but they've been through hell lately; all they need is a strong hand to get them back in line.”

 

“Hmm.” She taps a finger against the side of her cup. “Why don't we cut the games.”

  
Stiles blinks. “Um. Sure, no more games. What games are those?”

 

“You must understand my suspicion on the matter. You're trying so desperately to push these two on another pack rather than adopting them into your own—it's hardly unreasonable to assume that there's something undesirable about them that you're choosing not to disclose.”

 

“My pa—no, okay . . . no.” A curious mixture of relief and regret settles in his chest, and for a moment it's hard to breathe. “There's been a misunderstanding. I don't _have_ a pack.”

 

“I thought we agreed no more games, Mr. Stilinski,” Bianca says, her eyes narrowed, and despite his better judgement Stiles narrows his right back.

 

“And when I feel the urge to start playing, I'll be sure to let you know. Scott and I are friends; he's like my brother, actually, and I guess you could say that we're sort of like pack, in a way, but it's not—”

 

“I'm not referring to the McCall boy; I'm referring to the Beacon Hills pack. Why aren't you taking your lost little orphans back to them?”

 

Stiles shifts in his seat again. “They go to school here; it would be better to find them a pack in the area, to . . .” Bianca simply stares at him, and he swallows the rest of the excuses lining up on the tip of his tongue. “It's not my place,” he finally says.

 

“Nonsense. You may be human, but you're still—”

 

“I don't have a pack,” Stiles repeats firmly. He keeps his eyes locked on hers, and she stares back, openly measuring him for a moment before she picks up her cappuccino for a thoughtful sip.

 

“I see. Perhaps I _have_ been misinformed, after all.” She nudges her plate towards him. “Here. Help me finish this.”

 

He knows it's a test; knows it by her body language and her expression, and by the fact that she's an alpha and in his experience nearly _everything_ that an alpha werewolf does is a test of one kind or another. But he's hungry, and the muffin smells really damned good, and in the face of warm, buttery, blueberry-y goodness he doesn't really care about ulterior motives. So he reaches out, breaks a piece off of the top and pops it into his mouth without allowing himself to over-think. Stiles can't read her reaction this time, can't deduce whether he's just passed for failed, but hey, he still has all of his limbs so he's counting it as a win.

 

“I have to say, you've presented me with a fascinating situation,” Bianca says, watching him closely as he breaks off another piece. “This morning has been far more interesting than my usual; I appreciate that.” She sets her cup down with a muted _clink_ against the table. “Unfortunately, intrigue isn't enough to allow me to overlook the potential pitfalls of your proposal. I'm afraid that my answer has to be no; I will not be accepting the pups into my pack at this time. If they choose to present themselves for a formal announcement of their presence, you can contact my pack again. Otherwise, please warn them that any advance into our territory will be regarded as an act of aggression, and will be met accordingly.”

 

“Right. I understand.” There's a sinking feeling in Stiles's chest as he nods. Bianca's pack had been his best shot at getting Reyna and Nico placed, and he knows it. “Thanks for your time.”

 

“It was my pleasure. As I said, our discussion has been . . . illuminating.”

 

“Glad to be of service.” Stiles checks his watch with a smothered sigh. “Well, I hate to grossly fail at achieving my goal and run, but I've got another meeting in about an hour and I've gotta wash up first.”

 

“Yes, it wouldn't do to approach another alpha with my scent still anywhere on you; that would hardly open negotiations on a pleasant note.”

 

Stiles blinks at her. “Do I even want to ask how you knew that?”

 

“Hardly a difficult deduction. You're very devoted to finding your pups a home, considering you've known them such a short time. It stands to reason you'd keep looking when I said no. Not to mention.” She leans forward just a bit, sniffing at the air between them with a smile. “You're fresh as a daisy as far as human senses are concerned; little reason to shower unless you plan on meeting with someone with a keener sense of smell.”

 

“Well deduced, I guess.” He's not sure whether he's more alarmed or turned on, and in his confusion winds up settling on irritation instead. “Hopefully one of the other packs won't be quite as reluctant to take a risk as you are.”

 

“You're taking one yourself in baiting me,” she warns him, though she doesn't seem overly upset. “By all means, meet with the other alphas. I wouldn't get your hopes up, though.” She stands, all fluid grace and checked strength, and Stiles scrambles quickly to his feet as well. “I doubt that either of them will be any more inclined than I was to make a claim on them.”

 

“Great. That's just . . . that's just great.” Stiles throws his hands in the air. “What am I supposed to do, then? They can't just keep hanging with me—I'm not an alpha.”

 

“No. You're really not, are you?” Bianca laughs when he glares at that. “There's no shame in it; we all have our roles to play. You're a clever boy, Stiles. I'm sure you'll figure something out.”

 

“Super,” he grumbles. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, I guess.”

 

“And a word of advice for you, as well: in the future, you may want to be careful about offering yourself up to a wolf if you don't mean to deliver. Someone might very well be inclined to take you at your word.”

 

“Uh. Noted.” He swallows heavily. “Thanks.”

 

“You're quite welcome. Any . . . friend of the Hale pack,” she says with a knowing little smirk. “Give the McCall boy my regards the next time you speak with him.”

 

“Will do. Thanks for your time. And the, um.” He gestures vaguely. “Advice.”

 

The rest of the day doesn't really go any better; not that he's really expecting it to at this point. He manages not to accidentally proposition either of the other alphas, at least, or give any offense that warrants more than a few low growls and a flash of fangs—none of which, he can't help but note, is anywhere near as terrifying as Bianca managed to be with far less posturing. Unfortunately, while Stiles never really feels like his life is in serious danger, he also never feels like he's getting any closer to finding Reyna and Nico a new pack.

 

Bianca was right—neither of the other alphas are willing to entertain the idea of taking them in. He hears a lot of _not at this time_ and _the current state of our pack can't accommodate,_ and Stiles is an accomplished enough bullshitter to recognize when it's happening to him. There's something more going on here than what he's being told; that much is obvious. What that something _is_ , unfortunately, is what he can't figure out. By the time he gets home he's exhausted and frustrated, and if he never has to deal with another alpha again it'll be too soon. As it is, he's officially out of options beyond the one that he'd really hoped he wouldn't have to seriously consider.

 

He should've known it would come to this, probably. That's just the sort of luck he tends to have.

 

Stiles drops onto the futon, fishing his phone out of his pocket with a heavy sigh. It's a quarter to three; the clinic in Beacon Hills closes at two on Saturdays, so there's a decent chance that Scott will be home already. A couple of quick jabs at the screen brings up his number, and Stiles fires off a text.

 

_**You free? Need to talk.** _

 

He has the last of the term papers he has to grade on the coffee table and water heating up for instant coffee when his phone buzzes against the counter. He dumps a couple of heaps of sugar into the mug along with the crystals and checks his notifications.

 

_**sure. u ok?** _

 

_**I'm fine. Have something to run by you. Get your ass on Skype** _ **.**

 

_**b on in 10.** _

 

Stiles tries to focus on his grading at first, but instead he ends up just sitting, staring at his computer screen and waiting for Scott to log on. The coffee is too sweet; he knocks it back anyway, chasing the sugar rush as much as the caffeine jolt. It hits his stomach like acid and he winces. Maybe he should've stuck with water.

 

When Scott's face finally appears on his screen Stiles feels himself relax a little, unable to hold onto his anxiety with his friend's dopey grin shining out of the screen at him. He grins back, leaning forward a little bit towards the camera.

 

“Hey, man!” Scott's voice is tinny over the laptop's crappy speakers, but warm and excited and damn, it's only been a week since they last talked, Stiles shouldn't have missed him this much. “What's up? The kids aren't giving your trouble, are they?”

 

“No. And they have names, you know. Is that, like, a werewolf thing? Is that it? All day it's been _pups_ and _cubs_ and I'm pretty sure someone actually called them _foundlings_ at one point. I mean, what the hell?”

 

Scott's brow furrows. “Who have you even been talking to about—oh.” His eyes go wide as he remembers. “That's right, you were gonna meet with the alphas today. How'd that go?”

 

“Ugh.” Stiles sits back again, slouching into the cushions. “Terrible. None of the packs will agree to take them, which means they're completely screwed. They're coming over for dinner again tonight, and I don't know what I'm gonna tell them.”

 

“ _Again_?” Scott frowns, looking as suspicious and judgmental as he's physically capable of being. “That's what, the third time in a week?”

 

“Yeah, I guess so,” Stiles says, shrugging awkwardly.

 

“Don't they have some sort of meal plan or something?”

 

“Sure, but the school cafeteria food is crap. Besides, this way I don't just end up eating nothing but frozen dinners and junk food, and I don't even have to clean up the kitchen. It's a win/win.”

 

“I guess.”

 

“Aww, Scott, don't be jealous,” Stiles laughs. “I promise I'll cook for you soon, too.”

 

“Yeah, you'd better.” Scott sounds oddly serious, but before Stiles can tease him for it there's a shout from the other room, and Scott's expression clears. “Allison says hi, by the way. Hey, are you still planning to come up here next week?”

 

“That's the plan.” Stiles takes a deep breath and tries to smile. “Actually, that's what I wanted to talk to you about.”

 

“Shoot, man.”

 

“Well. I already told you none of the alphas around here would let Reyna and Nico in their packs. Bianca says hi, by the way.”

 

“Really?” Scott beams. “Cool! She's great, isn't she?”

 

“Yeah, great. Sort of terrifying,” Stiles mutters, “but great. Okay, we're getting side-tracked. The thing is, I don't think it's a good idea to leave them here unsupervised.”

 

“Who, the alphas?”

 

“ _Oh_ my god, you are not actually that dumb. Reyna and Nico, nitwit; I don't think it's a good idea to leave _Reyna and Nico_ here unsupervised.”

 

“You do realize they're not little kids, right?” Scott shoots back. “They're in college; they don't need a babysitter.”

 

“Shows what you know. They mean well, most of the time, but . . . look, they're not like you. They grew up in a pack, with other wolves, and now that they don't have one anymore it's like they don't know what to do with themselves. They've been running wild for a month, and as of right now they're on the shitlist of every alpha within the city limits. There's not enough time to arrange for them to formally declare themselves before I leave, which means they're limited to neutral ground. There's no way they'll stay on campus during the break if they're left here alone, and there's all of about five blocks of unclaimed territory for them to work with; if they wander out of that and into a pack's territory, they're toast.”

 

“So you're not coming home after all.” Scott's crossed his arms defensively now, all but pouting out at Stiles. “You're gonna stay there.”

 

“Well. That's not exactly what I was thinking. Okay, look, I'm gonna suggest something you might not be crazy about, but I want you to remember that I'm your best friend, and that I dove into the supernatural deep-end for you when we were sixteen years old, and that you want to keep me from having guilt-ridden nightmares about letting a couple of teenaged orphans get killed, all right?”

 

Scott's still pouting a little, but he rolls his eyes and nods. “All right.”

 

“I want to take them up to Beacon Hills with me.”

 

Scott goes so still that for a moment, Stiles actually thinks that the computer might've frozen.

 

“You want to bring a pair of strange werewolves into our territory?” He stares at Stiles for several long moments. “You do realize that's a _terrible_ idea, though, right?”

 

“Look, I know it's not _ideal—_ ”

 

“Oh my god, Stiles, are you _insane_?” Scott yelps. “There's no way Derek will go for it. Shit, you haven't already asked him about it, have you?”

 

“No, I haven't. Actually. Um. I was sort of hoping that you would.”

 

Scott is already shaking his head. “Uh-uh. No. No way, I love you, man, but you're gonna have to call him yourself.”

 

“I don't even know if I still have his phone number,” Stiles lies, grateful for the grainy connection and the miles and miles between Scott and his heartbeat. “He hardly ever answers his phone, anyway.”

 

“He does too. I know he used to avoid it, but he hasn't been that way for years now. I'm sure if you just called him—”

  
“He listens to you,” Stiles interrupts, ignoring the tightness in his chest and the odd, painful tingle in his fingertips. “Please, Scott. I know you guys might not want them in your pack, either, but Derek's at least gotta have some contacts up there, right? Maybe he can find someone who'll take them in. And in the meantime they'd only be there a few days, that's all. Just tell him . . .” He almost feels bad for what he's about to say, but desperate times. “Tell him they don't have anywhere else to go.”

 

He would swear he can practically  _ see _ Scott's heartstrings quivering as his eyes go warm and melty, and Stiles focuses on feeling like a jerk so that he doesn't break into an impromptu victory dance. Manipulating the tender-hearted is nothing to be proud of, after all.

 

“Okay, all right, I'll see if I can convince him. But . . . look, just make sure you don't smell like them when you show up, okay?”

 

“Uh, you do realize they'll be in the Jeep with me the whole way there, don't you?”

 

“Have them sit in the back.” Stiles would laugh, but Scott has that strangely serious look on his face again, so he nods and shrugs instead.

 

“Sure, whatever. Thanks for doing this, man.”

 

“Don't get ahead of yourself; Derek hasn't said yes yet.”

 

“He will, though,” Stiles grins. “You'll make sure he does.”

 

“You suck.”

 

“I know. And I'm also lazy. I don't want to grade these papers, so help me procrastinate for a while. How's Allison doing?”

 

Scott's eyes go soft again, this time with love and excitement and deep, fierce pride, and Stiles settles in, ready to spend the next half-hour hearing about the joys of impending parenthood.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The only good thing about being home sick for two days is that I've actually managed to get this chapter finished--which needed to happen before tomorrow's episode, as I anticipate that afterwards I will spend several days curled up in the fetal position, sobbing over my tragic addiction to this show. HOW DID THIS BECOME MY LIFE? *ahem* Right. Anyway, have some sibling/pack feels, and the actual first appearance of the secondary romantic interest! It's only been, um, the better part of four chapters; that's not _so_ bad, right?  >_

 

 

“I don't want to be Miss Negativity,” Reyna says from the backseat, “but are we _sure_ this is our only option?”

 

“Yeah, believe it or not, when I set out to drive a pair of lycantrhopic teenagers several hundred miles to try to find them a pack, I _did_ actually make sure that there weren't any easier choices out there,” Stiles says.

 

“Sorry! Geez.” Reyna huffs a little, but she seems to realize it makes her sound like a petulant little kid, because she gives it up quickly. “I'm just . . . I'm more nervous than I thought I'd be.”

 

“Scaredy-wolf.”

 

“Okay, you can't just randomly take things and add _wolf_ to the end,” she says. Stiles can see her rolling her eyes in the rearview mirror. “It's not clever.”

 

“Do you want to _walk_ the rest of the way to the house? Through another pack's territory?” he shoots back, and she slouches down.

 

“No.”

 

“Then stop lambasting my sense of humor. I am _totally_ clever.”

 

“You're a _dork_ ,” Reyna corrects him, grinning a little now. “And for the record, it's perfectly natural for me to be nervous. I”m only nineteen; I'm way too young to get mauled to death, all right?”

 

“You're not going to get mauled to death.”

 

“I might!”

 

“You _won't_. Jeez.” Stiles glances up, letting his eyes meet hers in the mirror for a moment before he has to concentrate on the road again. “I'm not going to let anything happen to you two.”

 

“What, you're gonna stand between us and a full pack of werewolves going for our throats?” She's scoffing, but Stiles can hear the nerves underneath, and the hope buried deeper still. He smiles.

 

“Damn straight. I grew up with this pack; I know how to deal with them. So you don't need to worry, all right?”

 

“Well.” She's staring at him critically when he glances back again. “I guess we'd at least have time to run while they were tearing you limb from limb.”

 

“That's the spirit,” he says dryly.

 

“How are _you_ not more nervous?” Reyna demands, turning to her brother. Nico doesn't answer; he just keeps staring out the window, his face shadowed in the upturned hood of his sweatshirt. Reyna pokes him in the side and he jumps with a high-pitched yelp that has Stiles doubled up over the steering wheel, laughing hysterically as Nico yanks his earbuds out. “How the hell are you listening to music at a time like this?” she shouts, and Nico glowers.

 

“It's a road trip! What am I _supposed_ to be doing? Ow, stop hitting me!”

 

“I'm trying to make a plan for our continued survival here and you're listening to freaking Coldplay!”

 

“It's not Coldplay, and you're not planning, you're just freaking out!” He flings himself back in his seat with a glare. “Excuse me if I don't want to start panicking already.”

 

“Oh, you're right, much better to pretend everything's fine and show up completely unprepared!”

 

“Why do you always have to do this? You can't ever just—”

 

“ _Hey_!” Stiles shouts, bringing both of them up short. “Don't make me turn this car around.”

 

“Now look what you did,” Nico mutters, head down and hunched in the corner against the door. “You made Mom mad.”

 

“I will leave you both by the side of the road,” Stiles says over the muffled laughter behind him, trying not to grin. “I swear to god.”

 

There's quiet in the car after that, and it doesn't take Stiles long to realize that he misses the chatter—he'd even take the bickering over this sudden silence that's allowing his thoughts far too much space to roam. It's been months since the last time he came back to Beacon Hills, and even longer since he's been out to the Hale property. He hasn't so much as seen Derek in more than a year. Now he's going to be showing up on his doorstep with two strange werewolves in tow, and to be honest he has no idea how Derek's going to react.

 

“We're making a stop,” he says abruptly, darting over a lane in time to make the turn into a small, crowded parking lot.

 

“We're . . . what?” Nico blinks, peering through the window like the idea is utterly incomprehensible. “Why?”

 

“I need coffee, and this place has the best.”

 

“You need coffee,” Reyna repeats, sounding as bewildered as her brother.

 

“Yes.”

 

Stiles climbs out of the Jeep and they scramble to follow him, the three of them hurrying into the tiny, battered building with their shoulders hunched against the wind. The air inside is warm, and rich with the scent of roasting coffee beans; Stiles takes a deep breath, like he can absorb a caffeine jolt through his lungs.

 

“You just felt the sudden need to stop for a cup of coffee?” Nico asks dubiously. Stiles shrugs.

 

“Got up early today. I'm jonesing.”

 

“You're stalling,” Reyna counters. “Whatever, I need to use the bathroom anyway. Get me one of whatever you're getting, will you?” she says, already heading for the sign at the back.

 

“You don't even know what that is,” Stiles calls after her, tossing his hands up when she doesn't even turn around. He shoots a glance over at Nico. “Is she always this bossy?”

 

“Man, she was born like that. Literally. Our mom used to say that the only reason I was born first is 'cause Reyna was trying to shove me out of her way.” He shrugs, looking around nervously as they walk up to the counter. “She's never been afraid to go after what she wants.”

 

“Gotta admire that, I guess.” A glance at the menu shows that nothing much has changed since the last time he was here; Stiles places his order and turns to Nico. “You getting anything?”

 

“Um. Hot tea, I guess. Here.” He pulls out his wallet, just shrugging when Stiles thanks him.

 

“You okay, man?” Stiles asks, moving towards the other end of the counter. Nico's still looking around like he's casing the joint, hunched in on himself protectively. “You look freaked.”

 

“They've been here recently.”

 

“Who?”

 

“The pack,” Nico says in an undertone. “Your friend Scott, and a few others; I don't recognize the scents. They were here.”

 

“Well, yeah.” Stiles tries to keep his voice as soothing as possible. “It's a small town; there aren't gonna be many places where they _haven't_ been. You okay?” he asks again, and Nico nods.

 

“It's just . . .” He makes a frustrated noise. “You're human, I don't know how to explain it. We're in their territory. It feels weird.”

 

“You've been in another pack's territory before,” Stiles points out, grabbing the coffees that the barista sets on the counter. “That's part of what prompted this little road trip, remember?”

 

“That was different.” Reyna's voice sounds suddenly behind him, and Stiles just barely keeps from jumping and spilling coffee all over his hands. “Bigger territory; less chance of getting found out or actually running into a pack member. Is one of those for me?”

 

“Yeah.” Stiles hands one of the cups over. “Got your tea, Nico? All right.” He takes another deep breath and tries to smile. “Let's hit the road!”

 

The stopover has allowed him to gather his nerves again, and he hurries back to the car without hesitation. Everything's going to be fine, he reminds himself. Scott cleared everything with Derek already; he knows they're coming; it'll be fine.

 

“I shouldn't have cut my hair before we left,” Reyna says mournfully after a few blocks; Stiles looks back and sees her peering critically into a little mirror that she's pulled out of her purse. She runs her fingers through her hair, ruffling the dark, short strands before smoothing them down again. “I look like a boy.”

 

“So what? It's not like they're more likely to take us if we're pretty.” Nico pauses with his cup halfway to his mouth, and glances up at Stiles. “Are they?”

 

“No.” Stiles thinks about it for another second. “Um. Probably. Your looks are almost certainly not going to be the deciding factor here. And Reyna, your hair looks fine.”

 

“ _Fine_?”

 

“Great! It looks great.” There's just enough Lydia in her tone to have Stiles instinctively rushing to correct himself. “Really, it, uh . . . it really suits you.”

 

“Yeah,” Nico pipes in, “androgyny's a good look for you.”

 

“Funny.” She takes a sip of her coffee and immediately pulls a face staring up at Stiles in horror. “ _Jesus_ , this is like pure sugar! How can you drink this?”

  
Stiles shrugs. “I really only like coffee when I can't taste it. Sorry.”

 

“That's what you get for ordering something without knowing what it is first.”

 

“Shut it.”

 

They carry on bickering for a while, and Stiles tunes them out. The windows are down in an attempt to air out the Jeep, with the heater kicked up high to compensate. Not the most environmentally sound policy in the world, but he figures it's better than having four or five hours' worth of concentrated werewolf scent blasting out as soon as they open the doors. He's so busy trying to keep his thoughts from drifting to what will happen when they arrive that they're all the way through town and into the woods before he realizes that things have gone quiet again. He glances in the rearview mirror to see the twins both staring intently out of the windows, shoulders stiff with tension and their eyes edging gradually towards gold.

 

Stiles keeps quiet; there's nothing, really, to say. They're approaching the heart of the pack's territory; all he can do now is hope and pray that Reyna and Nico can keep it together.

 

The house looms up suddenly as they round a bend in the road, and for a just moment Stiles thinks that he might've taken a wrong turn somewhere. It's been a while since the place was the burned-out husk he knew it as for most of his life, but it was still being rebuilt the last time he saw it. Now it looks . . . well, it looks like a _house_ , with three full floors and a porch that isn't falling down and a _paint job_ , for heaven's sake. It looks like a place where people actually live, and Stiles is more surprised than he probably should be. It feels like seeing someone resurrected from the dead—which, he reflects, is probably a far less unsettling analogy when you haven't had personal experience with that actually happening.

 

He parks the Jeep in front, next to the group of other cars already there. Scott's car is sitting next to the Camaro, and Stiles starts breathing a little easier—if Scott's here, things won't get too out of hand. The last car is unfamiliar; he turns off the engine, trying to figure out who else might be here.

 

“Stay here for a minute, okay?” he says, and climbs out without waiting for an answer. “Hello?” he calls, as if whoever's waiting wouldn't be able to hear him just as well if he whispered. “Special delivery! Candygram! . . . Landshark!”

 

The front door slams open, and Stiles catches sight of a blur of blonde hair and sleek black leather for a second before Erica collides with him. He manages to keep his feet mainly by virtue of a pair of freakishly strong arms wrapped around his back, and he huffs out a breath that's half-laugh, half-gasp.

 

“Hey there. Uh.” He hugs back as best he can, patting awkwardly at Erica's back. It's been a while since he was in a position to deal with this werewolf's physical-contact fetish thing; he'd actually almost allowed himself to forget about it. But now Erica is clinging to him, rubbing her face lightly against his chest, and Stiles sighs in resignation. “You're scent-marking me, aren't you?”

 

“It's for your own good.” She leans back and Stiles is surprised to see that her expression looks unsteady, like she can't decide whether to smile, cry, or scowl. “It's been too long since you came home, jackass.”

 

“Yeah, sorry. I've been busy.”

 

“Sacrificing everything for the sake of the children, right?” Stiles hadn't even noticed Scott coming out of the house, but he finds himself being pulled away from Erica and into another hug. “You _have_ been away too long. Aren't you finished with school yet?”

 

“I still have another term to go before I start my student teaching; you know that. I've missed you guys, too, though.” Stiles hugs Scott back fiercely and tries not to think about just how true that is. He feels somehow whole now in a way that, to be perfectly honest, he's not entirely comfortable with. It's an uncomfortable thing, realizing that you've almost forgotten how it feels to be at home. “Which probably means I'm in need of serious psychiatric help. Scott, dude, you're crushing my ribs.”

 

“Sorry.” Scott lets him go, still grinning his dopey-ass grin, and Erica immediately presses against his side again. “Was the drive okay?”

 

“Yeah, it wasn't too bad. We ran into some construction on the way, but other than that—woah! Jeez, everybody just _chill_!”

 

The hairs on the back of his neck shoot up as a sudden chorus of deep, threatening growls bursts out around him. A glance over his shoulder shows exactly what he was afraid of: Reyna and Nico are standing in front of the Jeep, apparently having reached the limits of their patience. Their eyes are bright gold and fixed on Scott and Erica, both of whom are halfway wolfed-out already. Stiles watches as the twins' lips pull back over lengthening fangs and he tries to step forward, but Erica's hand tightens on his arm and tugs him back.

 

 _Just like old times_ , he thinks wryly, twisting quickly in a move his muscles still remember from years of refusing to let himself get shoved to the back lines.

 

“Everybody just calm down, okay?” he says, darting between the two groups with a hand held up in either direction. “You two,” he glares at his friends, “you _knew_ they were coming, okay? You're grown damn wolves; now act like it. And as for _you_ two.” Stiles turns the glare on the twins, huddled close to each other but still emitting defensive, whining growls. “I told you to stay in the Jeep.”

 

Reyna takes a step towards him and Scott snarls harshly, making Stiles rolls his eyes despite his thundering heart. Reyna's shoulders hunch, but her eyes narrow and she doesn't move back again; after a moment she holds out her hand and Nico takes it immediately, stepping forward as well to join her.

  
“Stiles,” Erica snaps, flexing her fingers as her claws come out. “Move.”

 

“No.”

 

“Yeah, Stiles,” Nico agrees, muscles bunching in preparation. “We appreciate the gesture, but get the fuck out of the way.”

 

“ _No_ ,” he says, but he can't summon the proper authority into his voice this time. Every instinct that he has is screaming _predators, move, now, run_ ; he manages to ignore them all by sheer force of will, and stands his ground. “This is idiotic, and if any of you think I'm going to patch you up after some stupid territorial pissing contest, then you are _seriously—_ ”

 

“ENOUGH.”

 

There's another sharp, almost involuntary burst of growls, and then all four wolves fall silent like a switch has been flipped. Stiles feels his throat closing up of its own volition, and swallows hard. He hadn't quite realized until just now how weak his own alpha impression was, or how desperate for leadership Reyna and Nico must have been to respond to it the way they did. This— _this_ is the voice of an alpha on his own turf, the voice of authority that never dreams it could possibly be disobeyed. Scott and Erica both stand a little straighter, their eyes still furious over tightly-clamped lips, while Reyna and Nico seem torn between terror and a sort of instinctive, ecstatic relief.

 

Stiles slowly turns to see Derek leap down from the porch, and wonders what his own expression is giving away.

 

Derek looks the same as ever. His face might be a little leaner, his eyes a little harder, but otherwise he could be a ghost wandered in from Stiles's past. Same stubble; same black leather jacket, zipped now against the cold; same air of tightly-leashed violence and a sadness he would never, ever admit to. Looking at him, Stiles feels like he's drifting, unmoored, and suddenly he might as well be a sixteen-year-old boy again, his heart in his throat as he watches a tall, dark stranger materialize out of the woods.

 

“Stiles.” There's a wealth of meaning in that one word, but though Stiles can hear he can't quite understand it. All he can manage is a nod in return, and Derek's jaw clenches before he turns to the twins. “So you're the strays looking for a forever home, I take it. What're your names?”

 

“Nico Ramirez. Sir,” Nico adds hastily, frozen in place as he doesn't quite meet Derek's eyes. When he does finally manage to move it's to jam an elbow into his sister's side and make her jump.

 

“Reyna,” she squeaks out, sparing a quick glare for her brother as she shifts nervously in place. “We, um. On behalf of our pack, we cordially extend—”

 

“Skip it,” Derek says; Reyna chokes back the rest of her speech so quickly that Stiles is a little bit afraid she might swallow her tongue. “We're just a mongrel pack here; there's no point in standing on ceremony. It's good that you know it, though,” he finishes reluctantly, and Reyna's face clears. “You'll need to if you're dealing with any of the more established packs.”

 

“Hey, does that mean they brought food?” Scott pipes up, cutting off with a yelp when Erica stamps her heel down on his foot.

 

“We have pie,” Nico blurts out, and Stiles stifles a laugh behind his hand. “It's in the car.”

 

“Pie,” Derek repeats, raising an eyebrow.

 

“Apple,” Reyna says. “St—Mr. Stilinski said it was your favorite.”

 

Stiles feels himself flushing as all eyes turn to him. “Thats . . . still right, isn't it? I mean, you didn't develop an allergy, or swear some sort of apple-related vendetta recently, did you?”

 

“Don't worry; Derek's tastes haven't changed.” Erica's smirking when Stiles turns to look at her, and winks at him when he glares.

 

“If we're all finished discussing my eating habits,” Derek interrupts testily, “we have business to discuss. Scott, Erica, get inside. You two,” he says, turning back to the twins, “get your stuff and follow them. _Now_ ,” he adds when no one starts to move, and everyone jumps to obey.

 

In seconds all four of them are hurrying inside, and Stiles feels his heart begin to race again when he realizes that he and Derek are standing alone in front of the house.

 

“The house looks really great,” Stiles says, jumping a little at how loud his voice sounds in the sudden quiet. “Heh. I almost didn't recognize it.”

 

“You haven't been out here in a long time.”

 

“No.” Stiles shuffles his feet. “How come everyone else isn't here?” he asks abruptly, as the thought that's been bothering him since they first drove up finally pushes its way to the front of his mind.

 

“Because having the full pack here when two strange wolves showed up would've been an invitation for a bloodbath,” Derek answers. There's a crash and a loud snarl from inside; Stiles jumps, and Derek just rolls his eyes. “Even more of one,” he says pointedly. “Everyone else is coming by tonight.”

 

“That makes sense, I guess.” Stiles glances towards the house, shifting his weight forward. “So we should probably get inside before—”

 

“You're not going in there.”

 

“—they start . . . what?”

 

“You're not. Going. Inside.”

 

Stiles pulls himself up straighter. “Excuse me?”

 

“There's absolutely no reason for you to get in the middle of that.”

 

“Like hell there isn't! Those two are my responsibility; besides, people saw me leave town with them, so if they turn up dead in my home town, there's gonna be an awkward police inquiry or two for me to deal with.”

 

“They'll be fine.”

 

“Derek—”

 

“This is pack business, Stiles,” Derek says tersely, and a lead weight seems to settle in Stiles's stomach. “Go see your dad; go get some food.” He sets his jaw again and turns away. “Just go.”

 

Stiles watches numbly as Derek leaves, waiting until he disappears into the house before he climbs into his Jeep. He's hurting in a way that he thought he was beyond; after all, hasn't he spent the past five years trying to move past this? Except he's realizing now that no matter how hard he tries, no matter how long he stays away, he's never going to be able to move past it. Not really. He's never going to actually get over Derek Hale, and it's past time he came to terms with that.

 

None of which matters the slightest bit, because Derek doesn't want him—in his pack, in his life, in any way at all.

 

It's past time Stiles came to terms with that, as well.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I keep adding these notes about following me on Tumblr, and _people are actually doing it!_ :o THIS BLOWS MY MIND. Any of you who haven't yet, feel free to join the party! I'm hungrylikethewolfie there, and if you enjoy assorted fandom shenanigans come on by and we can hang out. ^_^ Also feel free to drop me a line there if you'd like; I promise I am very friendly! Come, let us talk about werewolves and superheroes and pretty things that make us smile.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is excessively long, jfc. For any of you who may be inclined to wonder after you read this: as it's been about six or seven years since the events of Season 1 and 2, I'm assuming that _at some point_ Papa Stilinski got filled in on the whole werewolf situation. (I mean, really, SOMEONE NEEDS TO TELL HIM ALREADY. JEEZ.)

 

 

Stiles is lucky that Allison's so thrilled about being pregnant, because he's pretty sure that generally speaking, blurting out, “Oh my god, you're _huge_!” as soon as he sees a woman who could kill him ten times over without even breaking a sweat—well, that might not be the wisest thing he's ever done. But luck is on his side for once, and instead of breaking his neck Allison just smiles broadly and holds the front door open wider.

 

“Aren't I?” she beams. “Come on, come in! And come here!” She reaches out, pulling Stiles into a hug as soon as he steps close enough; it's an awkward, side-arm sort of thing, with her rounded belly shifted to one side, but he holds tight to her shoulders and lets himself enjoy it.

 

“I swear, you were barely showing the last time I saw you.” He leans back and holds her at arm's length to get another good look. “What, did the kid grow overnight or something?”

 

“It seems like it sometimes,” she laughs. “But you know, it's actually been almost three months since I saw you last. If you're surprised, you have no one but yourself to blame. Lydia,” she calls out abruptly, “we're gonna need tea for three.”

 

“Why; who's here? I swear, if this is some sort of cutesy way of telling me that you're going into labor—” Lydia rounds the corner from the kitchen, and her eyes go wide and delighted when she catches sight of Stiles.

 

“I'm not even eight months along,” Allison is saying as Lydia strides forward, “if I were going into labor there'd be a lot less joking and a lot more panicking.”

 

“I can't believe you didn't tell me Stiles was coming over!” Lydia protests, and much to Stiles's chagrin, whacks him on the shoulder.

  
“Ow! If you're mad at her, how come _I'm_ the one getting smacked around?”

 

“I'm not going to hit a pregnant woman,” Lydia says, mortally offended that Stiles has even hinted at the possibility. “Really, Stiles.”

 

“So, what, I'm your whipping boy?”

 

“Pretty much. Those are just the breaks.”

 

“He didn't tell me he was coming over,” Allison puts in, and Stiles takes a hasty step back as Lydia's eyes narrow.

 

“Hey! You've already hit me once for something I didn't do; you owe me a pass.”

 

“Oh, fine,” she huffs. “But only because you bruise like a peach, and if I mark you up there'll be hell to pay.” She steps forward to pull him into a hug instead. “You've been away too long,” she mutters into his shoulder; Stiles snorts out a laugh.

 

“So everyone keeps saying.”

 

“Then there might just be something to it,” Allison says wryly, watching the two of them with a little smile curving up her lips. The kettle starts to whistle; both of the girls jump, and Lydia laughs.

 

“All right, I'll get the tea. Stiles, you get her actually sitting down—she's been on her feet all morning already.”

 

“How do you know? You just got here half an hour ago.”

 

“Because I know _you_. I promised Scott I'd make sure you didn't overdo it, so go sit your butt down. Stiles?” she snaps, already heading back to the kitchen. “What are you waiting for?”

 

“Yes, ma'am,” he mutters, and though Allison rolls her eyes she links her arm in his, leaning just a little as he leads her back to the living room.

 

Stiles has always found it vaguely amusing that Scott and Allison's house is such an oddly accurate reflection of them: cozy and warm and welcoming, mostly traditional but unexpectedly unusual when you look more closely. The kitchen is at the front of the house, and the living room at the back, so they make their ambling way through the house—Allison is waddling a little, but Stiles manages to bite his tongue before he points it out—past piles of what he can't help but think looks like a ridiculous amount of baby stuff.

 

“Okay, so why does your house look like you guys are getting ready for the Babypocalypse? You _are_ just having one, aren't you?”

 

“Yes, thank god,” Allison groans. She lets him help her lower herself onto the couch, and despite her earlier protests looks like she's relieved to be off her feet. “It's the rest of the pack; everyone's freakishly excited, and they keep buying us stuff. I swear, there has never been a couple better prepared for a new baby than we are right now. Derek's the worst of the lot, too,” she laughs. “I swear, he's more excited and nervous about it than we are. He keeps trying to convince us that we should move in with him—for the first few years at least, he says,” she adds, rolling her eyes.

 

“That's hardly anything new,” Lydia says, walking in carrying a tray crowded with steaming mugs and an open bag of Chips Ahoy. She sets the tray on the coffee table and takes a seat in the chair across from the couch where they're sitting, reclining like a queen. “He'd have all of us living there if he could; do you know how many times he's tried to convince me and Jackson to move in since we got married?”

 

Stiles takes a mug, letting the hot, honey-sweet tea wash away the bitterness that's trying to rise in his throat. “Not surprising. He grew up with that house full of family, didn't he?” His fingers tighten involuntarily. “He probably just misses having pack around like that.”

 

“I get that,” Allison says. “I actually do. It's sort of weird how it rubs off on you after a while, the whole pack mentality. But that doesn't mean I want to start living in some sort of werewolf commune.” She grins. “Not until I start needing babysitters, at least.” She leans forward awkwardly, bypassing the tea and going straight for the cookies. “Now, don't take this the wrong way, Stiles, I'm thrilled that you're here; but why _are_ you?”

 

“What do you mean?” he frowns, confused. “I'm here to see you.”

 

“And if you'd thought you could get away with not coming to see me I'd have had your hide; I just didn't expect be first on the list. I thought you'd have gone to see your dad first.”

 

“I called him after I left Derek's place.” Stiles can still feel the echo of an ache in his chest, the desperate, childish need to run to the shelter of someone who actually cared about him. “He's got a busy morning, though, so I'm meeting him at the station in an hour for lunch. And besides, I wanted to give you this.” He sets his tea back on the coffee table and reaches down for the bag at his feet. “It seems kind of superfluous now,” he says, glancing significantly at the mountains of blankets and toys and baby clothes piled around the room, “but . . . well, I'm probably gonna be back at school when the baby comes, so I thought I'd go ahead and do this while I'm here.”

 

“Ooh, present!” Allison grins and holds out her hands. “Gimme!”

 

“Oh my god,” Lydia laughs, “you're _three_. Hand it over, Stiles, before she throws a tantrum.”

 

Allison just sticks out her tongue and takes the bag, reaching eagerly inside. “Stiles is the only one who hasn't gotten in on the baby insanity yet; it's not fair for him to miss out on all the enthusiasm just because he doesn't live here.”

 

“Greedy,” Lydia counters.

 

“Also true. Now let's see what we have . . .”

 

She falls silent as she pulls out the little plush toy, and Stiles shifts, suddenly nervous.

 

“I, um. I know it's kind of cheesy. And I was gonna get a stuffed Merida to watch over her, y'know; girl power, and all that. But I was sort of worried she'd choke on the hair, and anyway, all the ones I found looks sort of _possessed_ or something, I don't know what the hell the toy company was thinking, and I figured Hawkeye was still sort of the same idea, so I just—”

 

“Damn it, Stiles.” Allison sniffs, reaching up to furiously wipe at her eyes. “ _Damn it._ ” He squawks when she thumps him on the arm, and Lydia snorts into her tea. “Do you know how much hormonal crap I'm dealing with right now? I'm already crying at the drop of a hat, and then you get something like _this—_ ” She shakes her head, laughing through the tears still welling up. “You asshole,” she accuses, and leans in to wrap him in a fierce hug. “I love it, and she will too.”

 

“Okay. Good.” Stiles hugs her back, dazed and relieved. “You know, I've never felt quite as much sympathy for Scott as I do right at this moment.”

 

“Oh, shut up.” She leans back, still sniffling. “He loves it.”

 

“He really does,” Lydia says. “It's sort of disgusting, actually. Now, what _I_ want to know,” she adds, picking out a cookie and nibbling around the edge, “is why you're out and about at all right now. Why aren't you still at the house with your own babies?”

 

“They're not my _babies_.” Stiles shoots her a dirty look and gets an entirely unfazed kissy face in return. “But I, ah. I would've stayed, but.” Stiles tries to smile, tries to pretend that it doesn't matter. “Derek sort of kicked me out.”

 

“Yeah, he wouldn't let us go, either.” Lydia sips at her tea with a sort of fondly annoyed look on her face. “Didn't want the fragile little humans getting in the middle of a big bad werewolf brawl.”

 

“Actually, Derek didn't want anyone there but him and Scott,” Allison adds conspiratorially. “But Erica threatened to disembowel him if he didn't let her stay.”

 

“You should've done that, too,” Lydia complains, “then we both could've gone.”

 

“Yeah, because that would've worked,” Stiles frowns. “Allison's been part of the pack for years now; Derek hasn't legitimately thought she might kill him since we were seventeen.”

 

“It's the baby,” Allison says smugly. “He's thrilled about the idea of having a cub around, but he doesn't know how to deal with me while I'm actually pregnant. It's like I've turned into some sort of terrifying mythological creature, that has to be appeased; it's pretty great.”

 

“I'll bet,” Stiles says dryly.

 

“Anyway, Derek didn't want the whole pack there, all looming and territorial,” Allison goes on. “So everyone else is just kind of doing their own thing for now.”

 

“Huh.” There's an odd sort of fluttering in Stiles's stomach that he's choosing to interpret as hunger, and he grabs a cookie. “Is Jackson gonna be here soon, then? Scott says he's been spending a lot of time hanging around.”

 

Allison smothers a laugh behind her hand, her gaze sliding over to where Lydia is brushing a speck of invisible dirt off of her skirt.

 

“Jackson isn't allowed over here anymore.” Lydia says casually, and oh, this ought to be good.

 

“How come?”

 

She glances around at the piles of baby things, sparing a dirty glare at Allison whose shoulders are shaking now with silent giggles. “Because it's giving him some sort of baby-fever.”

 

“Some sort of _what_?”

 

“Every time he comes over here, he comes home afterward with big glassy eyes, talking about onesies and car seats and the pros and cons of formula versus breast milk, and I just couldn't take it anymore.” She's actually looking harassed just at the memory, and Stiles does his best to stifle his own incredulous laughter. “I'm not ready to have kids, okay? I mean, Jackson and I haven't even been married for a year yet; I want some time for us to just be _us_. And I got sick of having to constantly remind him of that fact, so I banned him from coming over here. It's _not_ funny, you two!”

 

“Sorry,” Stiles manages around the laughter that he can't hold back another second. He and Allison are half-collapsed against each other, gasping for breath as Stiles flaps his hands in apology. “But yeah, it really, really is. It's just . . . Jackson with baby mania. It's not exactly the easiest thing to imagine, you've gotta admit.”

 

“Whatever,” Lydia huffs, pulling her dignity back around herself like a cloak, chin lifted high in the air. “You'll see for yourself at the meeting tonight; just seeing Allison is enough sometimes. I'll be expecting a formal apology afterwards.”

 

“What—wait, what meeting?”

 

“The pack meeting,” she says like perhaps Stiles is just a little bit slow. “We're letting them have their private little confab now, but the rest of us put our feet down about being left out altogether. If it's a question of letting two new people join the pack, then the entire pack needs to meet them,” she finishes reasonably. “It's just common sense.”

 

“Oh, that reminds me,” Allison pipes up as she struggles upright again. “What are you making for dinner? Nothing with chicken, okay? For some reason just _looking_ at chicken has been making me want to vomit lately.”

 

“Ugh.” Lydia wrinkles her nose, looking horrified. “In that case, seconded. How about lasagna?”

 

“Ooh, yes! It's been forever since we had Stiles's lasanga.”

 

“Hold on a minute!” The girls both look at him, startled at his sudden shout. Stiles takes a deep breath. “Okay. _What_ are you talking about?”

 

“What you're making for dinner tonight.” Allison says slowly, trading confused looks with Lydia. “I . . . sorry, did you want to make something else?”

 

“You're talking about me making dinner at the pack meeting.”

 

“. . . Yeah?”

 

“But I'm not—” _Not pack_. It's nothing he hasn't known for years now, but somehow he still can't bring himself to say the words. They feel like a curse; as if somehow, as long as he doesn't say them, he can pretend that they aren't true. “I don't think Derek wants me there,” he says instead, and Lydia rolls her eyes.

 

“Is that all? Look, forget about Derek; he's been in some weird-ass mood for like a week now. The rest of us want you there, and I'm sure the kids you brought up here probably do, too. I mean, you don't _have_ to cook if you don't want to.”

 

“Of course not,” Allison agrees. “We could always get takeout. That's what we usually do.”

 

“But you should probably know that Jackson's been talking about your food for days, and if you don't do it tonight there's a better than average chance that he's going to kidnap you after the meeting and chain you in the kitchen until you make him something.”

 

“He probably won't be alone, either.” Allison shakes her head in mock regret. “Isaac might even beat him to it, actually. Plus I caught Boyd flipping through your old recipe file the other day like it was a family photo album.”

 

“Come on,” Stiles protests, but he's laughing a little bit now, and his cheeks are warm with a pleased flush. “You guys are seriously trying to get me to believe that you never eat decent food unless I'm here? Really?”

 

“Well, Boyd and Erica at least don't burn or undercook anything.”

 

“Yeah, their food is always edible.” Lydia wrinkles her nose again. “It's just also always sort of . . . boring.”

 

“And then every couple of weeks Derek insists on making something for everyone,” Allison says, looking pained.

 

“He _what_?” Despite his resolution to stay detached, Stiles can't help but be horrified. “Come on, you guys promised you wouldn't let him backslide.”

 

“There was nothing we could do!” she protests. “He goes on these endless monologues about pack unity and the role of an alpha and the bond of the communal table, until it's either amputate our own ears or give in and choke down his cooking.”

 

“I wanted to go with the ear thing,” Lydia puts in, “but I got outvoted.”

 

“And since tonight's a big occasion, he'll probably try to insist again.”

 

“Well then, if it's a bonding thing, there's no way he'll let me cook instead.”

 

“Oh, please,” Lydia chides. “You know Derek's even crazier about your food than the rest of us. He'd keep you chained in the kitchen himself if he weren't so determined to set a good example.”

 

“What?” Stiles asks when Allison picks up her mug at last and mutters something into her tea. She stares at him wide-eyed over the brim.

 

“Nothing.”

 

“Uh huh. Look, I really think you two are exaggerating.”

 

“Believe what you want,” Allison says with a shrug. “But you might want to spread some mountain ash around your bed before you go to sleep tonight.”

 

Stiles sighs. “I'll think about it, okay?”

 

“Yay!” Lydia squeals, bouncing happily, and pulls out her phone. “I'll text Derek and tell him to make sure they pick up all the ingredients.”

 

“I said I'll _think_ about it. I might be having dinner with my dad tonight, instead.”

 

“Sure, sure. They'll just have everything on-hand in case you decide to come.”

 

“Right.” He runs a weary hand over his face. He doesn't know why he's surprised; steamrolling people to get her way is what Lydia _does_. “Make it stuff for spaghetti instead; lasagna will take too long.”

 

“Oh, fine. But only if you promise to make it with meat sauce instead of meatballs—nothing easily stolen that can cause a werewolf riot again.”

 

“I haven't said for sure that I'll be making _anything_ ; spaghetti's just something that even Derek will have a hard time screwing up completely.”

 

“Keep living in that happy little dream world of yours, Stiles,” Allison mutters.

 

“Thanks, I will,” he snorts. “Okay, I've gotta go pick up lunch.” He gives Allison one last hug and stands up, shaking his head at where Lydia is still sitting and texting furiously. “I'll see you guys later.”

 

“See you tonight!” they both call out cheerfully, and Stiles decides that it's not worth the energy to argue.

 

As he drives across town to the sandwich shop that sells the only salad he's ever seen his dad actively _enjoy,_ Stiles can't quite manage to clear his head. Five years spent trying to move on with his life, and he's still no less invested in the idea of being a part of things here; in the idea of being _pack_. It's clear that Allison and Lydia already consider him that way, and if what they were saying is true, so do most of the rest of his friends. It's really just Derek, then, who doesn't. Just Derek who doesn't want him.

 

And isn't that just the general pattern of Stiles's life?

 

He'd thought, at first, that all he needed was time. Time after Derek's rejection to get over it, to get over _him_. But the first time he'd come home from college it had taken one look at Derek for all of those emotions to swarm to the surface again, for all his work to be undone. More time, then; more distance; he made friends, he dated, he built a life for himself far away from the one that didn't want him. And he realizes now that he'd still give it all up in a heartbeat for the chance to come home, for the chance to get what he'd thought he had once.

 

It's too much to think about right now, so he pushes it down again, focuses on the familiar faces greeting him as he walks into the sheriff's station, and the nostalgia that sweeps him as he makes his way down the hall to his dad's office. His dad's on the phone when Stiles opens the door, but Stiles steps inside when he gestures and begins to lay the food out on the desk.

 

“You didn't have to bring me lunch, you know,” his dad says when he hangs up, pulling Stiles in for a bone-crushing hug. He's eyeing his salad dubiously, but he hasn't lost the smile that he's been wearing since Stiles walked into his office. “I'm happy just to have you home, even without the delivery service.”

 

“I'm glad to hear it.” Stiles rounds the desk again to sit, opening the styrofoam box on his lap. He starts to pick the onions out of his turkey wrap as he tries to ignore the heavy ball of guilt that's settled in his stomach. “I know it's been a while since I visited.” He clears his throat. “And yeah, I _did_ have to bring you lunch.”

 

“Old patterns, huh?” his dad remarks, and Stiles laughs.

 

“I guess so. Tough to ever break out of those completely. But no, Allison mentioned that Scott's mom is out of town for a few weeks, which means that if you're left to your own devices you'll be doing nothing but ordering takeout along with the rest of the station. Well, not on my watch, buddy.” Stiles picks up his wrap and points it at his dad. “I'm here to make sure you stay acquainted with the leafy green part of the food chain, so eat up.”

 

His dad huffs and opens up the little cup of dressing. “I _am_ an adult, Stiles, and perfectly capable of feeding myself. And I don't see what Melissa has to do with anything.” He dumps the dressing onto his salad with a single, unceremonious shake before he glances back up at his son. “What?”

 

“Dad. Come on.” Stiles gives him a significant look. “I'm not a little kid; you don't have to try to hide it to spare my feelings.”

 

“There's nothing to hide!” Viciously stabbing at a salad with a plastic fork isn't quite as intimidating as Stiles suspects his dad is hoping; he snorts, and his dad glowers. “There _isn't_.”

 

“Uh huh. You're calling her 'Melissa'.”

 

“That's her _name_ , Stiles.”

 

“Yeah, I'm aware of that. But you never call women by their first names unless you're contemplating a move—you're too stuck in cop-mode most of the time.”

 

“ _Stiles_ ,” his dad groans, and Stiles shakes his head.

 

“No, it's cool, Dad, chicks totally dig the cop thing.”

 

“She's not—” He bites back a sigh and shoves a forkful of salad into his mouth, chewing combatively. “We're friends,” he says firmly once he's swallowed. “That's it.”

 

“Mmm-hmm.” Stiles takes a bite as well as he eyes his dad. “Because that's all you _want_ to be?” he asks critically. “Or because you're both just stuck in the same old pattern?”

 

“Could you maybe save the insightful commentary for something _other than_ my love life?”

 

“Aha, so you admit that she has something to do with your love life!”

 

“Oh for—” His dad pinches the bridge of his nose. “Is there a reason you're so fixated on this?”

 

“I dunno. Just . . .” Stiles shrugs. “I want to see you happy, that's all. It's been a long time since Mom died.”

 

His dad shifts uncomfortably. “I've dated since then.”

 

“I know you have; but never anyone who ever had a chance at sticking. Someone you could really see yourself with long-term, you know?”

 

“Stiles.” His dad has that soft but pinched around the eyes look that Stiles remembers as his near-constant expression when Stiles was eleven years old. “I'm not looking to replace your mom.”

 

“I know, that, Dad,” Stiles sighs. “We've had the touching _Full House_ -style heart-to-heart before. But I don't want you to end up spending the rest of your life alone just because you're afraid of moving on.” He swallows. “And I don't think Mom would want that, either.”

 

“Yeah, well.” His dad clears his throat. “Speaking of moving on, how about we pick a topic of conversation that's a little less focused on my personal life?”

 

Stiles smothers a laugh at that. “Okay, Dad. Knock yourself out.”

 

“Well.” They both take another bite while his dad contemplates. “How'd the trip go?” he asks at last. “Did the kids give you any trouble?”

 

“No, it went fine. Apart from the almost nonstop bickering in the backseat, Jesus.” He grins goofily. “Kids today, huh?”

 

His dad snorts. “Think of it as good practice for the future.” He shakes his head, chuckling to himself, and Stiles frowns.

 

“What?”

 

“Just that sometimes it just hits me all over again that you want to be a teacher of all things.”

 

“So? What's funny about that?”

 

“Nothing, nothing.” He keeps his eyes fixed on his salad as he loads up his fork again, but Stiles can see the smirk still tilting up the corners of his mouth. “Just, remember how I used to say I hoped you had a dozen kids just like you when you grew up?”

 

Stiles glares again. “Okay, I was _not_ that bad. And even if I was, there were extenuating circumstances!”

 

“That's true,” his dad allows. “And I suppose if any of your students find themselves facing some sort of supernatural crisis, you'll be uniquely qualified to help them through it.”

 

“Damn right I will.” Stiles takes a petulant bite of his wrap. “Hanging out with werewolves ought to count as something you can list under _special qualifications_ on your resume.”

 

“Alas for the world we live in,” his dad says dryly. They eat in silence for another moment before he clears his throat in a way that Stiles is all too familiar with. “Of course, it's a skill that probably wouldn't get much use outside of a place like Beacon Hills.”

 

“Maybe not,” Stiles acknowledges suspiciously.

 

“And you know, I happened to hear that Mrs. Winterbaum is retiring at the end of next year.”

 

“Dad.”

 

“I know you'll be finished with your student teaching before then, but if you wanted to apply for the job, you know you'd have a place to stay in the meantime.”

 

“Dad, have you been job-hunting for me?”

 

“Hey.” His dad holds up a hand, his eyes wide and innocent, and Stiles isn't buying it for a second. He knows that look; hell, he _perfected_ that look. “I'm just passing on some information that happened to come my way. What you do with it is your decision.”

 

“Information that just _happened_ to come your way. About a teaching position that just _happens_ to be here in town.”

  
“Life's full of funny coincidences, isn't it?”

 

“You are just . . .” Stiles can't help but laugh. “God, you're seriously just the _worst_ bullshitter ever. Honestly, it's embarrassing.”

 

“Are you still determined to avoid whatever it is you're running from here?” Stiles's dad offers a sad, wry smile when Stiles snaps his gaze back to him. “You're not much better at bullshitting than your old man, son. I can count on two hands the number of times you've come back to visit in the time you've been away at school, and it's not just because you've been busy. I don't know what you're trying to avoid—all the supernatural crap you've had to deal with, or something more specific, or just the town itself—but I know you well enough to know that's what you're doing. What I'm fuzzier on is whether or not you're ever gonna stop.”

 

“I'm not—” Stiles bites back the rest of the protest in the face of his dad's _please, son_ face, and sighs. “I just needed time, I guess,” he shrugs, unable to keep meeting his dad's eyes. “When I went off to college, things were . . . I didn't really have a place here. Not like I thought I did, anyway. And I thought it would be easier if I just sort of kept my distance for a while.” He pokes at one of his chips. “I thought it would make things easier.”

 

“And did it?”

 

“For a while,” Stiles says quietly. He laughs a little. “Until I came home again. And then it was just like it always was, and I was right back where I started. So maybe . . . I don't know. Maybe right back where I started is where I'm _supposed_ to be, you know? I miss this town, and my friends, and you.” He finally looks up, staring almost defiantly at his father. “So if I don't have the place I want here, maybe I'll just have to make one for myself.”

 

“Stiles?”

 

“I think . . .” He takes a deep breath. “I think I'm ready to come home.”

 

“Well.” His dad's throat is working, and a smile is tugging up the corners of his mouth. “Like I said, son: you'll always have a place to stay.”

 

“Thanks, Dad. Now, finish your salad, and you might get dessert.”

 

“You're not talking about some sort of sugar-free, low-carb crap, are you?” his dad asks suspiciously, but he picks up his fork again nevertheless.

 

“I may or may not have picked up a pie on my way here. And I expect most of it to still be left when I get home tonight, understand?”

 

His dad makes a face but turns back to his salad. “You going out?”

 

“Yeah.” He sets his food on the desk and pulls out his phone. “I've just gotta text Lydia real quick and let her know I'll be there.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever, this space is dedicated to an open invitation to come and be friends with me on Tumblr! My handle there is hungrylikethewolfie, and I blog about whatever my obsession of the moment happens to be. Lots of werewolves and superheroes and politics and sci-fi/fantasy and pretty things. You can also get the inside track on my writing process (read: see me rant about having to go to work because making a living writing cheesy fanfic is impossible and also illegal)!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be advised that I spent the majority of my time while writing this chapter screaming "FFS JUST USE YOUR WORDS!" at the screen. So. Um. Yeah.

 

 

 

“You planning on staying out here all night?”

 

Stiles jerks upright at the sudden voice, his butt slipping from where he's half-perched on the Jeep's front bumper, feet sliding against drifts of fallen leaves as they scramble to find purchase. When his heart manages to settle down into a normal rhythm again he looks up, glaring at Isaac as he saunters around from the back of the house.

 

“Are people just determined to try to send me into cardiac arrest?” Stiles demands, shaking his hand so that drops of the—thankfully lukewarm—coffee he spilled on himself go flying. “Because that's just . . . rude. I'm only twenty-three, okay, I'm entirely too young to go out like that.”

 

“Maybe if you didn't drink so much coffee your heart would be in a little better shape.” Isaac is grinning from ear to ear, and Stiles can't help but grin back. “Seriously though, man, what are you doing out here?” he asks, reaching out to grasp Stiles's dry hand and pulling him in for a one-armed hug.

 

“Just.” Stiles leans back and lifts his half-empty to-go cup. “Finishing my coffee. It's nice out here, I thought I'd enjoy the weather a little before I went inside.”

 

Isaac lifts his eyebrows, eyeing the faint traces of steam that their breath is leaving in the air. “If you say so.”

 

“I do,” Stiles says firmly. “And what are you doing hanging around out back like a creeper?”

 

“I wasn't!” Isaac protests as he leans next to Stiles against the Jeep. “Boyd and I got here about an hour ago, and everyone was sort of restless—plus I think Derek was kind of freaking the new kids out a little. So Boyd suggested we all go for a run. Sort of a potential-beta bonding thing, y'know? Burn off some energy, and let Derek do his regressing thing on his own. They're all still out there.” He nods towards the woods behind the house. “But we heard a car, and I got nominated to come see who it was.”

 

“Oh.” Stiles lifts the cup to his lips, lowers it again without actually taking a sip. “So Derek's, uh. He's not out with you guys, then?”

 

“Nope! He's in there all by himself, probably practicing his glower in front of the mirror.”

 

Stiles snorts out a laugh. “Yeah, Lydia mentioned he'd been in, um. Kind of a _mood_ lately.”

 

“That's a way to put it.” Isaac rolls his eyes. “He's been on a tear all week, moody and bitchy and—” He stops suddenly, casting a quick glance up at the house before he clears his throat. “Anyway,” he says, overly bright, “I'm sure he'll be fine now. The whole pack back under his roof for a few days, you know. Plus Nico and Reyna. You know he's been talking about expanding the pack lately anyway, so I bet he'll be pretty stoked about them once he deals with whatever bug's crawled up his—” He glances at the house again and pushes away from the Jeep. “Well, you probably need to head inside and get cooking, and I should go let the others know you're here.”

 

“Wait—”

 

“Derek went out to grab stuff for dinner earlier; I'm pretty sure we got everything you'll need, but if there's anything else you need just shout out the kitchen window, we can make a run to the store.”

 

“Isaac—”

 

“Just, um.” That grin is back on Isaac's face as he backs away, wide and entirely too knowing for Stiles's comfort. “Have fun,” he says, before he's off like a shot, just a blur of motion in a bright blue hoodie and a battered canvas coat.

 

“What the _fuck_?” Stiles mutters under his breath, scowling after him.

 

He doesn't know what the hell Isaac's parting comment was supposed to mean, exactly, apart from probably nothing good for him. But he's stalled long enough, and he knows that going inside isn't actually getting easier the longer he stands there. So he pulls the lid off of his coffee and pours the last of it out onto the ground, cursing lightly when it splatters on the leaves and splashes his shoes. With a sigh, he deposits the empty cup back in the Jeep and, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets, tromps up the stairs onto the front porch.

 

The front door opens before he can progress past the initial uncertainty of whether to knock or just head right in—once he wouldn't have wondered at all, would've burst in like he had the right, but that was a lifetime ago and things are different now—and Derek is standing in front of him, sending his eyes in a casual survey up and down the length of Stiles's body. He doesn't look upset, or moody, or any of the things that Stiles has braced himself for. It's almost a disappointment after such a massive build-up, and ridiculously, Stiles feels himself getting annoyed.

 

“Finally decided to come inside after all?” Derek asks, eyebrows quirking up; Stiles twitches out a hunched-shoulder shrug.

 

“I was just finishing my coffee.” They stand there for another long moment before Stiles sends a pointed look over Derek's shoulder into the house. “I need to get started if we want to eat before midnight, so . . .”

 

Derek doesn't say anything, but he stands aside to let Stiles in. It's warm inside, and Stiles gives a single hard shudder, peeling off his jacket as the heat starts soaking into him. That alone is a world apart from the last time he was here; he pauses just inside the entryway for a moment as memories overlay his vision like some weird sort of mental double-exposure. He can see old smoke-scarred walls where gleaming wood and clean paint stand now, almost smell the traces of blood and dirt and damp amid the homey scents of floor polish and slightly charred toast.

 

Emotional vertigo has him freezing in place when he realizes it was here, just here that he was standing almost six years ago when—

 

“ _I wasn't offering. And I'm not going to. You're not a part of this, Stiles, and the last thing I'm interested in doing is keeping you here.”_

 

“Stiles?”

 

Derek's voice has him turning, blinking past the memory until there's nothing but a nice house and Derek standing there in worn jeans, a t-shirt, and a soft-looking black hoodie, and seriously, does he even _own_ any other clothes? Not that Stiles really has any room to talk, considering he's been pretty much rocking the same look since high school, but still.

 

“Yeah. I was just . . . the place looks nice.” He gestures vaguely with the jacket he has clenched in his hand. “Is there somewhere I can put this?”

 

There's a look on Derek's face that might almost be something close to concern, but Stiles brushes it off as Derek holds out his hand.

 

“I'll take it.” He nods at the long hallway behind Stiles. “Kitchen's through there.”

 

Stiles heads in that direction, past the stairs and through a wide doorway to the right, and wow, he doesn't know what he was expecting, exactly, but it sure as hell wasn't _this_. The kitchen is huge, big enough to fit a massive farmhouse-style table and half a dozen sturdy chairs with plenty of room to spare. Everything is sparkling clean and tidy in the way that's only possible when your kitchen isn't used for much actual cooking. That certainly fits with what Lydia and Allison told him, but it still strikes Stiles as unexpectedly distressing. A kitchen like this is meant to be _used_ , damn it.

 

“Oh, you're kidding me.” He's caught sight of the ingredients piled on one of the long stretches of countertop, and his heart sinks when he moves closer to see that, yes, sure enough, that's a bulging bag of fresh tomatoes. “Damn it,” he mutters.

 

“Problem?”

 

He shouldn't be surprised when he spins around to see Derek standing in the doorway, poised like he might need to leap inside and maul something. Stiles just rolls his eyes and heads to the sink to wash his hands, scooping up the tomatoes as he goes.

 

“Did any of you stop to think about how much longer it takes to make sauce all the way from scratch?” he asks, shaking the bag for emphasis. He deposits it next to the sink and soaps up his hands, glancing around until he spots the colander hanging from a nearby hook. “I don't suppose you thought to pick up any canned tomato sauce?”

 

“This is how you always used to do it,” Derek says; when Stiles turns in surprise it's to see him shrugging as he opens the door to what looks like a walk-in pantry. “Isaac found some of your old recipe books.”

 

“Oh.” He remembers those—battered three-ring binders filled with pages printed out from the internet, notes scrawled by half a dozen different hands in reminders that Boyd hates mushrooms and Jackson's allergic to shellfish, that Lydia will eviscerate him if she has to eat one more meal made with cream of chicken soup. “It's just . . .” He shrugs, dumping the tomatoes into the colander to rinse. “More time-consuming, that's all. We really might not eat for a while.”

 

“Here.” Stiles turns in time to see a can of tomato sauce flying towards his head; despite his initial panicked flailing he manages to catch it. Derek lifts an approving eyebrow and holds up another two. “We only have three. Will that be enough?”

 

“Well. It'll help, anyway. Thanks.” He eyes the pot already waiting on the stovetop. “You wanna pour these in and get them heating while I cut up the tomatoes? If you've got a blender or a food processor or something, that'll help, too.”

 

It's odd, in an almost unbearably pleasant way, to work with Derek as they throw things together. Derek takes direction in the kitchen as well as ever, which is surprising but excellent as far as Stiles is concerned—he's never been a huge fan of cooking by himself. Which doesn't mean that he's not confused as all hell by the fact that Derek is helping at all, hauling out utensils and cutting boards and giving things an occasional stir while Stiles chops up the garlic and onions. He'd expected . . . he's not sure what, actually. A quick guide to where he could find everything, and then for Derek to fuck off and leave Stiles in peace, maybe.

 

But even when there's nothing left for him to do, Derek doesn't leave, just hovers in the vicinity watching Stiles work. It's starting to make him feel like he's being _guarded_ , or like the house is, maybe; like Derek is watching him to make sure he stays contained in the kitchen, that he doesn't wander any further into the pack's territory. Between that and the fact that Derek seems to have forgotten the general limits of personal space, Stiles is starting to feel edgy and irritable.

 

“You're doing that thing again,” he points out eventually, and can actually _feel_ Derek check himself behind him.

 

“Thing?”

 

Stiles just rolls his eyes, trying futilely to hang onto his irritation as he's hit with a sudden wave of fondness. Goddamn, he really does still have it bad.

 

“That lurking thing.” He stirs the browning meat and sends a pointed glance over his shoulder at the distinct lack of space between them. “I can't even believe you're still doing that; seriously, you're a grown damn creeper wolf by now, at least try to hide—are you _sniffing_ me?”

 

Derek goes still for a split second before he takes an easy step back, his face as infuriatingly blank as ever. “You reek of coffee.”

 

“I . . . uh.” Stiles blinks, fingers tightening on the wooden spoon he's holding to keep from pressing a hand over his suddenly racing heart. “I spilled some on myself earlier. Outside.” He turns back to the stove. “Sorry.”

 

He doesn't even know why he's apologizing, aside from the fact that the air between them feels suddenly charged in a way that it hadn't before, that it _shouldn't_ after such a casual, offhand comment. Stiles is thankful for the smell of the sauce that's starting to fill the kitchen, hopefully overpowering any embarrassing declarations that his pheromones might be trying to make at the moment. Chiding himself for reading more into things than is reasonable or healthy—isn't that, after all, what sent them down this awkwardly uncomfortable road in the first place?—Stiles switches the heat off under the skillet and siphons off as much grease as he can before unceremoniously dumping the meat into the sauce.

 

“Nothing to apologize for,” Derek rumbles, and it takes Stiles a moment to reroute his thoughts, to realize that he's talking about the coffee and not the years between the last time they stood in this house together. “You've grown your hair out, too,” he adds, and Stiles has to laugh because what the hell, who the fuck needs context after all?

 

“Yeah, I guess so. It's been like this for a while; I don't really think about it much anymore.”

 

“It's been a while since I've seen you.”

 

“Right.” Stiles glances over, then back to the safety of the stove. “I mostly just forgot to get it cut for a while, and by the time it got to this length I decided, hey, I kind of liked it.”

 

“It suits you,” Derek says quietly, and Stiles takes a steadying breath before he turns around, because—no. Fucking . . . _no_ , Derek can't just _say_ something like that, not in a careful voice like he's confessing something secret, not in the middle of a scene as ridiculously domestic as this, and expect Stiles to just _let it go_.

 

“Derek—”

 

He doesn't know what, exactly, he's about to say, which is a little worrisome for someone whose mouth likes to run away with him at every opportunity. That's as far as he gets, though, before Derek goes still in a way that Stiles still recognizes as meaning he's heard something that Stiles's weaker senses can't pick up. Sure enough, a few seconds later there's the slam of a car door and the clatter of feet on the porch, and Stiles drops his eyes as he retreats back to the stove on the pretense of stirring the sauce. For the best, he tells himself as he hears the front door open and excited voices echo down the hallway. Whatever he was about to say, it's probably better that he didn't.

 

“Stiles!” Lydia sweeps into the room bearing a smug smile and a large wooden bowl covered with plastic wrap. “God, it smells _fantastic_ in here. We brought salad!”

 

“Trying to get out of clean-up duty again?” Stiles asks wryly, depositing the bowl on the table, and Lydia's smile widens.

 

“Forever and always. Brace yourself,” she says wryly as footsteps echo down the hall. “The Huns are approaching.”

 

“It smells like spaghetti and all is right with the world,” Erica all but moans as she saunters her way into the kitchen, making a beeline for the stove. “You need a taste-tester, right? Because I can totally do that.”

 

“Do not make me do something as cliched as whacking you with a wooden spoon.”

 

“Like that'll stop her,” Boyd snorts as he follows her in and reaches out for the same one-armed bro hug that Isaac had offered earlier.

 

“Can't you help me keep her in line?” Stiles asks, and Boyd breaks into a loud, long laugh.

 

“Oh, man, it's good to see you. Damn, that almost hurt,” he chuckles, rubbing a hand over his stomach. “Heh. No, Stiles, absolutely not. Like I even would if I could.”

 

“Oh, you could if you wanted to,” Erica smirks, abandoning her investigation of the sauce to wrap an arm around Boyd's waist and wow, just the _look_ she's giving him is practically pornographic on its own.

 

“Ooookay, new rule, no sex in the kitchen before dinner, got it? Great.” He frowns over at Lydia. “You said 'we'.”

 

“What?”

 

“You said ' _we_ brought salad'. Where's the rest of the 'we'? _Who's_ the rest of the 'we', actually? Is everybody here?”

 

“Allison, Jackson and I drove here together.” She lifts the edge of the plastic wrap covering the salad and plucks out a cucumber slice. “Scott's walking Allison in, and Jackson and the new kids are outside sniffing each other's . . .” She waves her hand dismissively before taking a delicate nibble at the cucumber's edge. “Whatever.”

 

“Shit,” Stiles mutters, already turning to head outside and break up what he's afraid might be a potential bloodbath, only to find Nico and Reyna already hovering in the doorway. “Oh, good. What are you just standing there for? C'mon, there's plenty of room, this kitchen is practically bigger than my entire apartment.”

 

Nico steps warily inside; though when no one seems inclined to growl or lunge at him, his shoulders loosen and he takes the chair next to Lydia's with a cautious smile. Reyna spends another long moment eyeing Derek, who Stiles is mildly alarmed to note is eyeing her right back; eventually, however, he inclines his head in the barest of nods, and Reyna hurries in to sit next to her brother.

 

“So.” Stiles rubs his hands together in the suddenly awkward silence. “How'd the beta bonding go, then?”

 

Four pairs of eyes slide over to Derek, one at a time, as if they'd planned out some kind of synchronized check-to-make-sure-the-alpha's-not-going-postal system. Stiles finds it a little bit disturbing.

 

“They keep up, I've gotta give 'em that,” Boyd offers first, and Erica lets him go to take one of the remaining chairs.

 

“Reyna's got a pretty good nose.” A knowing smirk twitches at the corners of her lips. “For certain things.”

 

“If you're gonna flip over people seeing you neck, do it in the privacy of your own home,” Reyna says with an innocence too intent to be real. “That's all I'm saying.”

 

“She found a couple of kids parking,” Nico tells Stiles with a grin. “They kind of freaked out.”

 

“Hey,” she says, nudging his leg with her foot, “ _I'm_ not the one who shoved my face up against the window.”

 

“You did _what_?” Derek barks out, but while the twins freeze in place Erica just grins unrepentantly.

 

“Actually, that was me.”

 

“I've never heard anyone scream so loud in my life.” Isaac grins as he steps inside to join them, nodding to the twins before he hauls out the chair next to Erica and settles onto it in a backwards straddle.

 

“The girl was pretty spooked, too,” Boyd laughs.

 

“And did any of you assholes think to invite me?” Jackson finally strolls in, Scott and Allison at his heels, and Stiles feels his eyes rolling automatically. “See if any of you get invites once we open up our pool for the summer.” He stops in front of Stiles, looking him up and down like he's measuring his worth; it's an obnoxiously familiar look, but he can't quite keep the hint of a smile off of his face this time. “Hey.” He bumps his shoulder companionably into Stiles's, a little too hard to be comfortable, and turns a glare on Nico. “Move.”

 

Nico's scrambling up before Stiles can protest, and though Reyna's glaring at Jackson as he settles into the vacated chair, Stiles is noticing the way that Nico's eyes linger on Isaac's encouraging smile as he takes the chair next to him, instead. That's either sweet or very, very dangerous; Stiles resolves to figure it out later, when he doesn't have an entire room full of werewolves to deal with.

 

“Really?” Lydia says in disgust, standing abruptly. “I'm the only one who thinks to give up her seat to the pregnant woman?”

 

“Sorry!” Isaac's already rising. “Here, Allison, sit down.”

 

“No, really. Thanks, guys. But, um.” She glances around the table, and either she's noticed Nico's disappointed look, too, or she still isn't keen on the idea of sitting so close to Erica, because she slips on an apologetic smile of her own. “My back's sort of twinging; would you mind if we moved this party into the living room?” She rests a hand on her stomach. “I think the baby might like the couch better.”

 

They all know Allison well enough to know when she's being genuine, and when she's being blatantly, deliberately manipulative. Apparently not everyone has retained this sense of perspective in the face of her pregnancy, however, and Stiles has to stifle a laugh as Scott, Jackson, and Derek all scramble to assure her that yes, of course, the living room would be _fine_. Isaac and Boyd look resigned but amused as they join the others, and Erica looks grudgingly impressed. Lydia's smile reminds Stiles of nothing so much as a proud mother whose child has just taken her very first steps.

 

“First pack cub, I'm guessing?” Reyna asks quietly, watching the procession out of the room, and Stiles grins over at her.

 

“Yeah. I didn't realize everyone would be this into the whole thing.”

 

“New life. The pack is growing; it's safe and prosperous enough _to_ grow.” Her smile is wistful, and it tugs at Stiles's heart. She glances over at him and then quickly away. “It's a big deal.”

 

“I guess so.” He glances at his friends' retreating backs. “You two go on ahead; I need to get the noodles and bread started. I'll call out there when it's time to eat.”

 

They do as instructed, Reyna whispering something to Nico along the way that has him flushing bright red and shoving her through the door ahead of him, sending her tripping as she peals out a laugh. It's only then that Stiles realizes that Derek is still in the room, watching him with careful, considering eyes.

 

“Go on, go hang with your pack.” Stiles swallows down a sudden surge of bitterness, admonishing himself as he does so. “I can handle things in here.”

 

For a moment it looks like Derek might say something, but his mouth stays clamped shut, and a moment later he turns as well, leaving Stiles alone in the massive kitchen for the first time since he arrived.

 

This is good, he assures himself as he puts the water for the noodles on to boil. He can use a little bit of time to gather himself. It's unsettling, this feeling of drifting back into his own past, and he needs a little while to get his thoughts in order again. Unfamiliar as the setting might be, with the full pack around him it feels undeniably like coming home. It's awoken a craving in him that he hadn't even realized was there, one strong enough for him to be willing to move past the ridiculous mix of emotions that Derek still stirs in him just by _being_ , because Stiles has finally realized beyond a shadow of a doubt that this— _this_ is where he belongs. If he has to fight for his place here, so be it; he'll carve it out tooth and nail if that's what it takes.

 

By the time the food is finished, Stiles feels decidedly calmer, and he's grinning when his shout towards the other room brings a stampede of hungry packmates in to jostle for position as they load up their plates. It takes Derek snarling out a warning and a pointed comment about good manners for the crowd to part so that Stiles, Allison, and Lydia can get their food before the wolves quite literally descend. That's another old, familiar pattern: once the humans are fed they move out of the way quickly, retreating to the living room again while the others battle it out over pride of place. As guests, Reyna and Nico would normally get to serve themselves first, but apparently their status as potential pack pushes them down to the end of the line. Stiles has a moment as he leaves to see Jackson looking almost insufferably smug about that, which is par for the course, really, and comforting in its own way.

 

They settle into their seats with the ease of long practice, familiar enough with each other to know without asking who'll be sitting next to each other and who should be kept as far apart as possible. Stiles ends up wedged between Scott and Lydia, with Jackson curled up on the floor in front of his wife and every so often elbowing Stiles in the shins. Which is fine—expected, even—until the twins head for the floor on Stiles's other side, and Jackson's growl is sharp enough to send the hairs on the back of Stiles's neck shooting bolt upright.

 

“Dude,” he says admonishingly, nudging Jackson hard with his leg even as Erica rolls her eyes and reaches up from her perch on the arm of Boyd's chair to tug Reyna down on the floor next to her.

 

“Watch it!” Jackson complains, steadying the plate that he'd almost dropped when Stiles shoved him. He glares over his shoulder. “If you make me spill my food, you're cleaning it up. And making me more.”

 

“Anyone who spills _anything_ is cleaning it up themselves,” Derek growls, settling into the armchair that Stiles guesses must be his usual seat. “Nico, sit down. And everyone, _behave_.”

 

Lydia whacks Jackson lightly on the back of the head, hissing, “Don't be an ass,” and everyone settles in to eat. For several minutes there's quiet aside from the sound of forks scraping against plates and the occasional squabble when someone steals off of someone else's plate. Erica eats the mushrooms out of Boyd's salad; Scott gives Allison his tomatoes even though he loves them, because he's a sucker for the happy smile that lights up her face when he does; Isaac and Jackson almost come to blows across the coffee table over the piece of garlic bread that Nico claims to be too full to eat. Stiles feels warm, and safe, and happy, and is therefore completely unprepared when Allison hands Scott her plate, wipes a speck of stray sauce from her mouth, and asks:

 

“So, are we actually going to talk about pack business tonight, or is the plan just to lapse into pasta-induced food comas and fall asleep?”

 

Scott, whose eyelids are definitely beginning to droop, sits up a little straighter. “Is there, like, official protocol for this or something? We've never actually talked about someone else joining the pack before. Someone specific, I mean.” He grins. “This is exciting.”

 

“What is there to talk about?” Lydia asks, snagging the last cucumber slice off of Jackson's otherwise empty plate, ignoring his half-hearted protests. “They're in, right? I mean, they've pretty much imprinted on Stiles like baby ducks; separating them now just seems cruel.”

 

“She's got a point,” Isaac says, grinning apologetically at Nico, who even Stiles can hear muttering under his breath about _not_ being a _duckling_ , thank you very much.

 

“So they're in, then.” Boyd rubs a hand lightly over Erica's knee. “Is there gonna be a cage match or something to figure out their rank?” He grins up at his girlfriend. “Because I could be into that.”

 

“In your dreams,” she sneers sweetly.

 

“If there _is_ , though, I've got ten bucks on Nico,” Lydia says, eyeing him thoughtfully. “He seems like a scrapper.”

 

“Guys,” Stiles finally says when he manages to unglue his tongue. He's having trouble getting a proper breath, like his throat and chest are just a hair too tight. “I . . . I don't think—”

 

“It should be up to the alpha, right?” Jackson interjects, leaning back a little into the hand that Lydia's running through his hair. All eyes in the room turn to Derek. “Come on,” Jackson adds, a little desperately. “Be the voice of reason here.”

 

“It'll be my call in the end,” Derek says after a moment, into a silence that's thick with the words he's not saying. Stiles is pretty sure that he can hear them anyway. “And, obviously,” Derek adds, “up to Reyna and Nico. But it's good to hear your opinions.” His eyes flick briefly over to Stiles, then back to the others. “All right, let's get things cleaned up. Anyone who didn't cook or carry another human being inside of you for the past seven and a half months, get your ass in the kitchen.”

 

Scott snags Stiles's plate and bounds up, apparently having hit his second wind; everyone else grumbles but piles up the dishes to straggle into the kitchen after him. Stiles sees Nico and Reyna both standing, as well, and frowns at them.

 

“You brought dessert, guys,” he reminds them. “Sit down, enjoy watching others work while you loaf.” He grins at Jackson who scowls at him as he passes, and looks back to find the twins both shifting uncertainly from one foot to the other.

 

“It's okay,” Nico says first, clutching his plate like someone's going to try to snatch it away. “I don't mind helping out.”

 

“Yeah.” Reyna darts a quick glance over Stiles's shoulder. “It's the least we can do, really. Especially since, um. Derek said we could stay here tonight, if that's cool with you? There's a ton of room, and our stuff's already all upstairs, so . . .”

 

“Oh. Yeah, that's great. Saves you two from having to sleep on the pull-out sofa in the living room.” He looks over to see Derek's chair empty and twists around, unsurprised to find him standing behind the sofa. “Thanks, Derek.”

 

“It's no trouble. I've got the space.”

 

“But . . . lunch tomorrow, right?” Reyna asks, backing towards the kitchen with a glance that never quite makes it all the way over to Derek. “Nico and I wanna take you out.”

 

“That sounds great.” Stiles smiles at her, makes a shooing motion with his hand. “Go on, go. And make sure Scott remembers that you're supposed to _run the water_ when you're using the garbage disposal.”

 

“Hey, Lydia,” Allison says suddenly from the other end of the couch. “Help me up, would you? Derek, do you still have any of that pistachio ice cream in the freezer?”

 

“There should be some, yeah.”

 

“That sounds excellent,” Lydia says brightly, grasping Allison's hand and helping her lever herself upright. “I'll go with you.”

 

As subtlety goes, Stiles thinks wryly, it leaves something to be desired. But subtle or not, he's suddenly left alone in the room with Derek, and it seems like there's not quite enough air for him to breathe.

 

“Um.” He scrambles up off of the couch. Derek is just standing there, staring back at him like he doesn't quite know what to do, and a million different thoughts are jockeying for place in Stiles's head. “Thanks for letting them stay here,” is what he finally settles on—redundant, maybe, but at least it's safe. “They'll definitely be more comfortable than they would've been at my place.”

 

Derek nods slightly. “I'm surprised they took me up on it,” he says, and immediately looks as if he wants to snatch the words back again. Stiles frowns and takes a half-step forward.

 

“Why?”

 

Derek just _looks_ at him. “You're not seriously asking that.”

 

“Um. Yeah? I really am.” Stiles crosses his arms over his chest. “They seem to be adjusting to things here pretty well. Why wouldn't they—”

 

“Because Reyna has a thing for you,” Derek snaps, his jaw setting even as Stiles's falls open.

 

“Wh-what?” He casts an alarmed glance back towards the kitchen, only moderately relieved when the sounds of laughter and raised voices continues unabated. “No, she doesn't,” he hisses at Derek. “She and Nico . . . I'm like, a mentor, or a—a substitute alpha, or something. Sort of. It's not—not like _that_ , all right?” Derek's looking at him now like Stiles might be somehow mentally impaired, and Stiles shifts nervously. “But even if it was . . . ” He searches Derek's face for something, some hint as to how he should be interpreting this obvious displeasure at the idea. “Well, does it really matter?”

  
Derek breaks eye contact first, glancing pointedly away, and though Stiles knows he should see that as a victory, all he's left with is disappointment settling like lead in his stomach.

 

“No,” Derek says after a moment. “It doesn't. Like I said, I was . . . just surprised she'd pass up the opportunity to stay with you.”

 

“Well.” Stiles uncrosses his arms, crosses them again. “You're probably wrong about the whole thing, then.” He chooses to ignore the look that Derek shoots him at that. “Anyway, I wanted to say. Well.” Stiles clenches his hands in the sleeves of his shirt in an attempt to keep from fidgeting. “I know everyone was saying things tonight, about . . . but I don't expect you to say yes just because they think . . . shit.” He gives up and scrubs both hands over his head, ruffling his hair all to hell. “I don't even know what I'm trying to say.”

 

“That's fine.” Despite not having moved an inch since Stiles first stood up, Derek suddenly seems farther away, somewhere Stiles doesn't know if he can reach, and the thought sends an unexpected jolt of panic scrambling through his chest. “I get what you're saying. They seem like good kids, but Lydia's right; they're gonna want to go wherever you go.”

 

It's the perfect opening. The perfect time for Stiles to step forward, to tell Derek in no uncertain terms that his place is _here_ , whether certain brooding asshole alpha wolves like it or not. But Derek's face suddenly seems to be made out of stone, and the words dry up on the tip of Stiles's tongue.

 

“Yeah. Well.” He shoves his hands into his pockets. “I'm, uh. I'm not really in the mood for pie, and my dad's probably waiting for me, so I think . . . I'm just gonna take off. I'll be by to pick the twins up for lunch around eleven-thirty, if that's all right with you?”

 

“Fine.” Stiles is already almost to the front door, pulling on the jacket that had been flung over the back of the chair closest to the entryway, when Derek's voice has him turning again. “Stiles.” He's standing in the open doorway to the living room, looking every bit as frustrated with words as Stiles has been feeling all evening. “Even if you aren't . . .” He stops and lets out a small, huffing sigh. “You're always welcome here,” he finally says, eyes locked on Stiles's, and all Stiles can do is nod.

 

“I . . . thanks.” It's Stiles's turn to look away first this time, reaching blindly for the doorknob and retreating into the cold, damp night, more confused than he can remember being in years.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever, I extend an invitation to follow me on Tumblr! (I'm hungrylikethewolfie there.) Come, revel with me in fandom shenanigans and political madness and a big pile of shiny things! (Pretty much the most accurate summation of my blog you're ever going to get.)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things! Things are progressing! I will probably think of like a billion other things to say about this later, when it is not 3:30 in the morning, but right now . . . things!

 

Stiles orders an extra side of bacon at breakfast, because you don't grow up surrounded by teenaged werewolves and not learn to plan for these things. You just don't. So when Nico plucks the last piece off of Stiles's plate without waiting for an answer to his quick, “Are you gonna eat that?” Stiles just sighs.

 

“I guess not.”

 

Nico freezes with the bacon halfway to his mouth and Reyna's elbow jamming into his side, his face so stricken that Stiles couldn't keep from laughing if he tried. Which, well. He doesn't.

 

“Go ahead,” he says with a smile, “it's fine. My stomach's already full of more food than it should be physically capable of holding, anyway.”

 

“Maybe you should go with Nico on his run today,” Reyna says too innocently to be sincere. “You know, if you're into that sort of thing.”

 

“Uh. Not really. I'll run, you know, for my life if I have to, but just running for the hell of it has never really been my . . . okay,” he says slowly, taking in Reyna's smirk and Nico's answering glare, “you're not really talking about running.”

 

“Yes, we are,” Nico insists. “And you can come if you want.”

 

“Ooh, kinky.”

 

“Reyna, shut _up_.” The blush spreading across Nico's face is ridiculously adorable; Stiles just barely restrains the ill-advised urge to reach out and pinch his cheeks. “Why are you trying to make this into something . . . whatever?”

 

“Um, because you obviously have a thing for him?” She jabs a finger into his shoulder. “Everyone could smell it on you last night, even if you weren't _completely_ incapable of being subtle about anything, ever.”

 

“Oh,” Stiles says as realization hits, and picks up his coffee for a sip. “Isaac.”

 

“See?” Reyna smirks, victorious. “Even _Stiles_ noticed.”

 

“Hey!”

 

“No offense.”

 

“I hate you so much,” Nico groans, crossing his arms on top of the table and burying his face there. “You're not a sister,” he says, words muffled against the fabric of his sweatshirt, “you're some sort of demon-spawn. I tried to tell Mom and Dad, but they never listened.”

 

“You okay there, man?” Stiles asks, nearly biting a hole in his own lip to keep from laughing.

 

“It's really nothing.” Nico sits up again, shoulders hunched up towards his ears like he's still trying to hide. “I don't know why she has to make everything into a _thing_ ,” he says, shooting a glare at his sister. “He's just nice, and he said I could join him on his run today, and . . . I mean, I don't know if he's even . . .” He fixes Stiles with a look that ends up far more pleading than he probably intends, and Stiles feels bad when all he can do is shrug.

 

“I don't know. Isaac's always been pretty private about his personal life. I mean, I'm pretty sure he had, like, the crush to end all crushes on Scott in high school—and if you tell either of them I said that I will actually skin you alive,” he warns, “but I haven't heard anything one way or the other lately. For all I know, he's been living like a Trappist monk for the past few years.”

 

“Yeah. Well.” Nico fiddles with the frayed cuffs of his sweatshirt. “Like I said, it's not even a thing.” He glances at the door. “But, um. I'm supposed to be meeting him soon, so . . .”

 

“Sure, man, go ahead.” Stiles grins as Nico scrambles quickly out of the booth. “You gonna be able to run right now though? I'm pretty sure you ate your own body weight in pancakes.”

 

“I'll be fine. I'll see you guys later.”

 

“See you back at the house,” Reyna says, watching her brother hurry out the door with a look of fond worry on her face.

 

“He'll be fine,” Stiles tells her, and she sighs.

 

“Yeah. No, yeah, he will be. It's just . . .” She sighs again, slowly spinning her coffee cup on the scarred Formica tabletop. “Nico's never been great at keeping himself in check, emotionally. He falls for someone, and he puts everything he has into it.”

 

“I know how that is,” Stiles says dryly. “Believe me. But sometimes you've just gotta get your heart broken; it's part of growing up.”

 

“Just because someone _can_ break your heart, though, doesn't mean you should make it easy for them.” She slouches back against the padded bench, staring at her hands. “We don't even know what's gonna happen here, if we'll be joining the pack or not. I don't want him to get attached if we're not sticking around.”

 

“Are you worried about that? You two seemed to be getting along pretty well with everyone yesterday.”

 

“The pack is great,” she says quickly, rushing to reassure him like she's afraid that he's going to take offense. “I think we could do really well here, it's just . . .”

 

“Just what?” Stiles presses.

 

“I think Derek hates me,” she blurts out, looking genuinely miserable now. “He hates me, and he's not gonna agree to let us join the pack because he doesn't want me around. I think he'd take Nico on his own, and I know I should just step back and let him stay if that's what he wants, but I can't; he's all I have left and it's selfish, I'm a terrible big sister, but I just _can't_.”

 

“Hey, woah. Woah.” Stiles reaches across the table to put his hand over one of hers, now clenched in a death grip around her cup.

 

“Would either of you like some more coffee?”

 

The waitress is stepping towards their table with a friendly smile, and Stiles is turning to smile back with a polite 'no thanks' when he hears a growl starting to bubble up in Reyna's throat. There's the sound of claws suddenly scraping against stoneware, and he tightens his grip.

 

“ _Woah_ ,” he says again, less gently this time, and spares a glance for the alarmed-looking waitress. “We're good, thanks.” It's more terse than he'd intended, but she seems only too happy to beat a hasty retreat. “You need to _chill out_ ,” Stiles hisses at Reyna as soon as she's gone, drawing his hand back only when he feels her claws retract. “What the hell was that?”

 

“Sorry. God, I'm sorry.” Reyna buries her face in her hands for a moment before she gives a humorless laugh. “Guess Nico's not the only one with trouble keeping his emotions in check.” She looks up, apologetic but determined. “I'm okay. I can get a little territorial, but that's no excuse. Sorry.”

 

“Right.” Stiles stares at her for a moment, watches her taking deep, careful breaths. “Okay. Derek said something last night, and I thought he was just being an idiot, but . . .” He trails off, unsure if he should say anything else, but Reyna fixes him with an intent stare, brows furrowed together.

 

“What? Is this about why he hates me? Is he worried about my control, is that it?”

 

“He doesn't hate you,” Stiles assures her, rolling his eyes, “he just doesn't understand how to communicate without a scowl. And it doesn't have anything to do with your control. He just . . . okay, you're probably gonna laugh about this . . . he thinks you have, like—like, a _thing_ for me.” He lets out a nervous laugh of his own. “Which okay, I thought was crazy, but . . . well, what did you mean, exactly, by _territorial_?”

 

Reyna blinks at him. “I . . . are you serious?”

 

“There, see, I _knew_ it was ridiculous.” Breathing a little easier now, Stiles sits back. “Hell, it's not like Derek would recognize emotional attachment if it bit him in the ass. Just forget I mentioned it.”

 

“Oh my god,” Reyna groans, burying her face in her hands again. “I don't even believe this.”

 

“Hey, it's really not a big deal. Seriously, we can just—”

 

“Stiles,” she bites out. “You are an _actual moron_.”

 

“Okay, rude.” Stiles frowns uneasily. “And uncalled for.”

 

Reyna lowers her hand and fixes him with a serious look. “ _Completely_ called for. How on earth have you spent this much of your life around werewolves without understanding things like this?”

 

“Wait. But.” Stiles just blinks. “ _What_? But . . . you never _said_ anything!”

 

“I thought you understood!” she says, throwing her hands up in frustration. “I thought you were just trying to let me down easy, spare my feelings by never saying anything straight-out! And then we got here, and I thought . . . I thought okay, I get it now, he's spoken for, when all this time you've actually just been _completely oblivious_.”

 

“What do you mean _spoken for_ , I'm not—”

 

“Okay,” she says, talking over him like she hadn't even noticed him speaking, “for the record: Derek was right. I like you, Stiles. And just so we're clear, I don't mean that I like you as a friend. I mean that I'm interested in dating you, in being your girlfriend. We could be good together, I know it.” She leans forward, lowering her voice as if anyone overhearing them would have the first clue what they're talking about. “We wouldn't need to stay here; you, me, and Nico could be our own pack,” she says earnestly. “We'd be so freaking amazing, Stiles, if you'd be willing to give it a chance.”

 

“Reyna.” Stiles can only stare at her. “I . . . I don't know what to . . .”

 

She stares back for a moment, face falling before a wry smile quirks up her lips and she retreats with a sigh. “Yeah, I sort of figured.” She sighs again, eyes dropping back to her coffee cup. “But hey; at least I said something this time.”

 

“I'm sorry. I just don't—”

 

“Yeah, you, um.” Reyna holds up a hand. “You don't need to get into the whole thing. I get it.” When she looks back up, the smile she gives him is a little more genuine. “There's a reason I didn't say anything before now, you know.”

 

“I really am sorry. I . . .” Stiles lets out a frustrated sigh of his own. “Okay, I haven't spent much time on this side of the conversation, I don't really know what to say.”

 

Reyna laughs a little at that. “You're doing okay.” She tilts her head at him, questioning. “Can I ask you something?”

 

“Is it gonna make this any more awkward? Because that's gonna affect my answer.”

 

“What happened with you and Derek?”

 

“Oh for—” Stiles looks away, hoping that if he just avoids eye contact long enough he'll be able to pretend that she didn't just ask that. A glance back shows her still waiting, though, and fucking hell, how is this even his life? “You don't really expect me to answer that, do you?”

 

“You just broke my heart,” she says matter-of-factly. “Don't you think I'm entitled to understand why?”

 

Stiles goes still, fighting the urge to squirm in his seat. “I don't know why you think the one has anything to do with—”

 

“Stiles, _please_.” Reyna is close to scowling now. “If you don't want to tell me, just say so, but don't treat me like I'm an idiot, okay? I've been in the same room with the two of you; there's something there, I can _smell_ it.”

 

“Shit,” Stiles mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face. “It doesn't matter, okay?” He's having a hard time meeting her eyes. “It was a long time ago.”

 

“You dated?” she presses, and Stiles has to laugh.

 

“No. We never . . . it wasn't like that.” He shoves away the memories of all the times he thought it might be, all the times he'd wondered if maybe, just _maybe_ , he wasn't imagining what he saw when Derek looked at him. “It wasn't like _anything_ , really. I was someone he tolerated having around; that was it.”

 

“Huh.” Stiles can feel Reyna's eyes on him, measuring and evaluating. “That's not what I would've guessed. Are you sure—”

 

“He told me, all right? That he wasn't interested in me staying around.” He takes a deep breath, surprised to realize that he feels somehow lighter after the admission. “We were all getting ready to go off to college, and everyone knew Derek was sort of freaking out about it—about the pack fracturing, you know.”

 

“That's really rare,” Reyna puts in. “I mean, sometimes you'll lose one or two to a different pack, especially if they find mates there, but for the most part people come home.” She shrugs. “It's just how we tend to work.”

 

“That's what had him worried: the mate thing. If Allison or Lydia had decided to leave, Scott and Jackson would've followed, no question. So Derek spent like a month trying to . . . I don't know, like, strengthen pack bonds or something. He talked to Allison about giving her the bite, even though he knew she'd say no. Like, as some sort of formal declaration of her as pack, I guess. Same thing with Lydia; she said he thought that consent might be the key to her immunity. Ah, that's a long story,” Stiles adds, seeing the look on Reyna's face. “I'll tell you about it later. Anyway, she said she wasn't ready, but she'd think about it. And I just.” He picks up his coffee, playing for time, only to realize that he's already finished the last of it.

 

“You didn't want it either,” she guesses. “He didn't take it well?”

 

“He, um. He didn't ask. _Wouldn't_ have asked, I guess; wouldn't have mentioned it at all if I hadn't gone by one day to tell him that.” Stiles shrugs, trying to convey the impression that the memory doesn't still sting. “I had some stuff to talk to him about, but I guess I'd been misunderstanding my place in everything. Derek made it really clear that he wasn't invested in me coming back from school at all. I mean—” He scratches at the back of his head, shrugging again. “I mean, it makes sense. I didn't have anyone tied to me the way Allison and Lydia did. There was really no reason to worry about me sticking around.”

 

“Right.”

 

“Anyway.” Stiles sighs heavily. “Look, I wouldn't have even told you all this, but . . . I'm sorry, I think it's partially my fault Derek's all weird about the idea of you joining the pack. He doesn't think of me as a part of it, and he doesn't think you'll want to stick around without me.”

 

“Yeah.” Reyna nods slowly. “He's probably right about that, actually.” She leans forward a little. “What about you, Stiles? Do _you_ wanna stick around?”

 

“Reyna, neither of you should be basing your decisions on—”

 

“Oh my _god_ , would you just answer the question?”

 

“You _are_ bossy, jeez,” Stiles grumbles, but he's smiling when he does it, and for the first time since they started talking about this he's able to meet her eyes. “This is my home; and no matter what Derek thinks, those are my friends. They're my _family_. I'm a part of this pack, whether he likes it or not, and he's just going to have to learn to deal.” He frowns a little at the fond, exasperated smile she gives him. “What?”

 

“You really are kind of a moron. Well.” She raises her coffee cup to flag down one of the waitresses who isn't actively avoiding their table now. “That'll make it a little easier to get over you, at least.”

 

“Yeah, somehow it doesn't seem like that's gonna be much of a problem for you,” he says dryly, smiling when she laughs.

 

“Maybe,” Reyna grins. “I'm glad I said something, anyway. I thought I didn't need to hear it, you know? I knew you didn't feel that way about me. And don't get me wrong, it really, _really_ sucked to hear.” She adds a little bit of cream to her coffee while Stiles dumps a handful of sugar packets into his. “But I think it helped.” She shrugs. “I don't know, I'm probably not even making any sense.”

 

“You're not doing too bad.”

 

It's not long after that that Reyna has plans to meet up with Jackson of all people, for a discussion about law school, and leaves Stiles to his own devices. He finds himself on the road back out to the Hale house before he even knows what he's planning to do, Reyna's words still echoing in his ears.

 

Maybe she's right. Maybe years of staying away, of waiting for his feelings to die down on their own, wasn't exactly the very best strategy to adopt. If he's going to be staying in Beacon Hills—and he damn well _is—_ it's probably best if he and Derek clear the air between them once and for all. Point-blank rejection will hurt like a bitch, but at least he'll be able to stop wondering, stop hoping that Derek stumbling over his words around him is anything more than the tragic social awkwardness that Stiles knows it to be.

 

The Camaro's the only car out front when Stiles pulls up this time, heart hammering in his chest because really— _really_ , this is a thing that he's doing. The better part of seven years of trying to keep his feelings under the radar, and now he's about to march up the front steps and get right in Derek's face with it.

 

Stiles gives serious consideration to the possibility that he may have legitimately lost his mind as he makes his way to the front door.

 

It takes two full minutes of knocking before Stiles gives up and tries the doorknob. It's unlocked, something that he chooses to take that as a sign that it's fine to just head right in.

 

“Hello?” he calls out as he shuts the door behind him. “Hey, Derek, where are you?”

 

There's no answer, and Stiles frowns. The house feels still and quiet; there's no sense of another person waiting just out of sight, nothing but the silence of empty rooms. Stiles shuffles his feet for a moment, uncertain. Derek's probably out for a run or something, either with Isaac and Nico or on his own. Communing with the forest. Wolf stuff, Stiles doesn't know, he usually tunes Scott out about the time he starts waxing poetic about fresh air and the timeless beauty of the trees, or whatever. The point being that Camaro or no Camaro, Derek isn't here, and Stiles has to decide whether or not to stay here until he gets back.

 

It's no decision at all, really, not after he's worked himself up into this state. He can't wait on this now that he's decided to do it, which means he's going to have to wait on Derek, instead. He can smell coffee, and despite the three cups he had with breakfast, having another now seems like as good a way to pass the time as any. It's good, actually. This way he'll have something to hold when Derek shows up; Stiles gets the feeling their conversation is going to be awkward enough without trying to figure out what the hell he should be doing with his hands.

 

He's only two steps into the kitchen when he stops dead in his tracks. There's fresh-brewed coffee, all right—a mug of it is sitting on the table next to a half-eaten sandwich. Stiles stares for a moment, uncomprehending. Blinks. Stalks over in a sudden burst of fury-and-caffeine-fueled energy, and no, his eyes aren't deceiving him, the coffee is still hot enough to be giving off thick swirls of steam.

  
“You have got to be _fucking_ kidding me!” he shouts into the empty house, wondering if Derek's still close enough to hear him. “What are you, five years old?” Stiles starts to pace around the kitchen. “Who the hell _does_ this? What—you are a _grown man_!” he yells again, and reaches up to tug at his hair. “If you don't want to talk to me, _say so_ ,” he finally mutters.

 

The worst part, Stiles thinks, is that he can't even stay angry for long. He leans wearily against the counter as he settles, instead, into resigned irritation. This has been the pattern of their relationship—such as it is—for years now. Backing down, avoiding conflict, avoiding _each other_. Stiles has kept his distance, but Derek hasn't exactly come seeking him out, either; it's not his fault that Stiles has suddenly changed the script without any sort of advance notice. Though what he could possibly think Stiles is doing here aside from trying to see him is a mystery Stiles doesn't feel up to deciphering. Well, Derek is just going to have to get with the program, because Stiles has finally screwed his courage to the sticking place, and by god they are having this out before it comes unstuck. Unscrewed. Whichever.

 

He's still full, but he takes the rest of Derek's sandwich on basic principle when he leaves.

 

The Beacon Hills Animal Hospital is unsurprisingly the same as it ever was, aside from a new coat of paint on the building and a battered second-hand sedan where Stiles still half-expects to see Scott's bike. Dr. Deaton's car is nowhere in sight, which is both a surprise and a relief; Stiles isn't really up for the older man's particular brand of insight right at the moment.

 

“I can't believe Deaton trusts you to close up by yourself,” Stiles is already calling out as he walks inside, and it's only a few seconds before Scott pokes his head around from the back, grinning.

 

“Man, he was right, people really _don't_ bother paying attention to the _Closed_ sign.”

 

“Might help if you guys actually bothered to lock the door.”

 

“Fair enough, I guess. Lock it behind you, would you?”  
  


“Sure.” Stiles flicks the deadbolt and takes another look around. “You're really here by yourself? Where's Lucy?”

 

“We had a really light day; she finished with the paperwork about twenty minutes ago, and I told her to go ahead and take off. Her wife's coming back from her trip today, so.” Scott shrugs. “I'm just feeding the cats. Come on back.”

 

“So, I went to Derek's house just now,” Stiles says, stopping in the doorway to the cat room where his allergies should remain more or less untriggered.

 

“Really?” Scott glances up, then quickly back down to the food he's measuring out a little too carefully. “What for?”

 

“Fo—damn it, you totally know, don't you?”

 

Scott keeps his eyes on the kibble. “Know what?”

 

“The truth about Santa Claus, Scott, what do you _think_? About me. And Derek. About me, and my feelings for Derek, you know about that.”

 

“Dude, I'm your best friend,” Scott says chidingly. “Yeah, I've got a clue about the guy you've been pining over for literally your entire adult life.”

 

“Ugh.” Stiles drops his head against the doorframe. “I thought it was just the girls, and it turns out _everyone_ freaking knows. Oh shit.” He straightens so fast that he actually makes himself dizzy. “Does _Derek_ know? I need you to be completely honest with me, okay? Because if I've been working myself up for nothing for the past hour and a half—”

 

“Stiles, chill.” Scott looks like he's trying not to smile, which is just. Rude. It's rude, and Stiles is insulted. “I can say with absolute, one hundred percent certainty that Derek definitely has no clue.”

 

“Oh. Okay.” Stiles groans and lets his head fall again. “Damn it, that means I still have to tell him.”

 

“You—really?” Now Scott looks _excited_ , jeez, what kind of a crappy best friend is he? “I thought you were sticking with your usual ignore-it-until-it-goes-away approach.”

 

“Yeah, well, that's kind of the problem. I tried that, and it didn't.” Stiles crosses his arms. “Go away, I mean. So I figure a good, straightforward confession's probably the way to go. Because apparently at some point my life turned into an actual shoujo manga, what the _hell_?”

 

“Do those usually have this many werewolves, though?”

 

“Dude, where have you been for the past decade and a half of young-adult literature? _Of course_ there are werewolves.” He shakes his head and flaps his hands in dismissal. “We're getting off-topic. Look, I need you to give me your shirt.”

 

“My— _what_?”

 

“Your shirt! Come on, I know you keep an extra one here. I need it.”

 

“That's . . . it smells like Allison, I keep it here in case I'm having a bad day,” Scott protests, and since Stiles stopped bothering to find things like that weird somewhere in the middle of their senior year of high school, that particular revelation only makes him brighten.

 

“Even better! I'll smell like both of you, then. Hand it over.”

 

“You want to wear my Allison shirt?”

 

“Yes. Yes, I do.”

 

“But—”

 

“You said you have it in case you're having a bad day. How's your day been so far?”

 

Scott shrugs reluctantly. “Pretty good, I guess.”

 

“And it's almost over. Soon you'll be going home, and seeing Allison in the flesh, so you don't _need_ the shirt. I? _Do_ need the shirt. Please; aren't I pack?”

 

Scott softens then, as Stiles knew he would; no matter what his status with the others may be, there's never been a doubt that he and Allison are the core of things for him. And sure enough, Scott sighs in resignation and gives Stiles a light shove as he passes by him.

 

“Come on, it's in my locker.”

 

“You're the best,” Stiles grins, following at his heels. “You are an actual hero, Scott McCall.”

 

“If you start singing Bette Midler, the deal is off.” There's laughter in Scott's voice as he grabs the shirt out of his locker and tosses it straight at Stiles's face. “Do I even want to know what you need this for, by the way, or should I just strenuously remind you to wash it before you give it back?”

 

“Look at you, busting out the big words.” Stiles folds the shirt into as small a square as he can manage with the vague thought of keeping the scent trapped inside. “You know how I said I went by Derek's place?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“He _hid_ from me, man. Ran away and hid, like a little kid who doesn't want to be told it's bedtime or something.” He pauses, wincing. “Um. Or possibly an analogy that's a little less uncomfortably apt. Anyway. I figure if I show up smelling like I've got some other people with me, he won't think he can get away with trying that again. Which reminds me, I need to borrow your car, too, I think he probably recognizes what my Jeep sounds like.”

 

“You don't think you're maybe taking this a little bit far?”

 

“Are you kidding? I'm taking it to freakin' Timbuktu, man. But . . .” He shrugs uncomfortably. “I have to do this. For my own peace of mind, I just. I have to.”

 

Scott stares at him for a moment, and sighs. “Wait until tonight, okay? I'll make sure he's at the house.” He takes his keys from the locker, tossing them to Stiles as well. “And make sure you fill up the tank.”

 

“Yeah. Hey.” Stiles steps forward to pull his friend into a hug. “Thanks.”

 

“Remember, be sure you wait until tonight, okay? Derek's a lot easier to pin down after dark.” Scott squeezes him hard, once, and then nudges him away with a grin.

 

“Nice, your choice of words is absolutely hilarious.”

 

“And remember how much you owe me.”

 

“Absolutely. Hey, I stole Derek's sandwich; it's still in the Jeep if you want it.” Stiles hands over his own keys. “Consider it a down-payment.”

 

Scott snorts. “That better be a damn good sandwich.”  
  
“Well, I'm guessing Derek made it himself, so you might want to exercise caution.”

 

“He's okay with sandwiches.” Scott's brow crinkles. “Most of the time.” He pokes a finger into Stiles's chest. “You're gonna _seriously owe me_.”

 

“I get it, I got it, I'm gone.” Stiles jangles the keys in his hand. “Thanks again.”

 

“Hey.” Scott's grin this time is a shade more wicked than Stiles is used to, and it's surprisingly difficult to ignore the shiver of unease that trembles down his spine. “This is what friends are for, right?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, feel free to come hang with me on Tumblr! I'm hungrylikethewolfie there, and if you want insights into my writing process (read: mostly me yelling at the characters) and/or enjoy werewolves and politics and fairy tales and awesomeness and shiny things, you should follow me!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we have it, the end of the end of the end! (Unless I decide to do an epilogue. Which I might. But no promises.) My apologies for the general crappiness here; I think a lot of things worked better in my head than when I actually sat down to write them. Herein lies porn and bickering and an extra helping of cheese at the end. Please also rest assured that in my mind, there is yet more discussion and arguing and hashing things out after the curtain closes at the end here, but I'll leave the details of their further bitchfests to your collective imaginations.
> 
> THANK YOU SO MUCH to everyone who's left comments or kudos or hell, just read along. Your feedback and support have been invaluable. And an extra big thanks to my wonderful Ninjabeta, without whom I would probably have far worse writing, and definitely have far, _far_ fewer terrible ideas.
> 
> Okay, I'm just gonna hit 'post' before I talk myself into rewriting the entire chapter after all.

 

 

He knows that things have gotten ridiculous when he seriously considers napping in Scott's car, just to make sure the scent takes.

 

Instead, Stiles spends the rest of the day trying to keep himself occupied. He makes inquiries at the high school about potential openings and the sort of experience they'll be looking for. He sifts through the _rentals_ section of the classifieds and starts compiling information about cost versus amenities, because he appreciates his dad's offer but he's not exactly thrilled with the idea of moving back into his old bedroom. He idly browses the web for a while, ending up switching back and forth between half a dozen cooking websites and a paranormal investigation forum that he thinks might actually not be complete bullshit.

 

No matter how things go with Derek tonight, this is the life that Stiles is choosing for himself, and he's determined to head into it fully prepared.

 

He does leave Scott's shirt in the car, in the interest of preserving the scent. No point in shooting himself in the foot there, after all.

 

The thing is, there's a reason why Stiles tends to go off half-cocked, jumping into action as soon as the barest semblance of a plan is in place, and that reason is simply this: he _hates_ waiting. Hates it deep down to the marrow of his bones, and would probably never wait for anything ever again if that were actually an option for his life. Waiting gives him too much time to think, to _obsess_ , to go over the millions of different ways that what he's planning to do could go horribly, spectacularly wrong. He's all for plans, he really is; he just prefers to develop them on the fly, while he has enough immediate action to distract the part of his brain that absolutely knows better.

 

When he'd been sixteen and overheard his dad talking about the dead body in the woods, he'd rushed over to Scott's house the second he'd gotten shoes on his feet. That's been the pattern of his life since then, and despite the occasional concussion and contusion and best-friend-turned-into-a-creature-of-the-night, he thinks it's worked out pretty well so far.

 

By the time he pulls up in front of the Hale house, Stiles can't quite decide if it's a good or bad thing that he's had way too much time to think about the possible pitfalls of this plan. In the _pros_ column: he is fully prepared to plant himself in Derek's bed in the hopes that Derek will eventually have to sleep.

 

In the _cons_ : his hands are shaking the second he takes them off the steering wheel.

 

Because the upshot of it all is that he's never stopped being afraid of Derek. Not really. True, it's been years and what feels like lifetimes since he figured out that Derek's bark was worse than his bite, and nearly just as long since he realized that he no longer believed that Derek might actually hurt him. But just when he no longer saw Derek as a threat to life and limb, Stiles had to face the fact that he had become an emotional threat, instead.

 

Which was, and is, just . . . so, _so_ much worse.

 

Bruises and lacerations and concussions all heal. In Stiles's experience it's rejection, it's _loss_ that will cut you just as deep five, ten years down the road. Stiles had always been careful about letting anyone in enough to hurt him; the fact that Derek Hale of all people has managed to snarl and sneer and bluster his way beneath his skin is, frankly, still a little bit baffling. The fact that he's the one with the power to leave him terrified of the pain he's sure is coming is downright _infuriating_.

 

Stiles holds on to that feeling, lets the irritation smother the fear long enough to get out of the car, to march up the front steps and into the house without so much as a courtesy knock.

 

“Stiles?” Derek steps out of the living room, looking unfairly good in a simple henley and jeans, and frowning as Stiles strides past him. “Where are Scott and Allison?”

 

“At home, probably,” Stiles says over his shoulder. He doesn't even slow down on his way to the kitchen—it's the only place in the house that feels like neutral territory, and he needs every edge he can get right now. “Scott said something about making pork chops.”

 

He heads immediately for the fridge, poking around inside until he finds a can of Coke that he can swipe. When he turns around Derek is standing in the doorway, his frown escalated to a scowl. In a weird way, it eases Stiles's nerves a little. The comfort of the familiar, he suppose.

 

“They're not coming.” It's not a question, really, and Stiles doesn't pretend to believe otherwise.

 

“Not tonight,” he says, fidgeting with the can he's still holding. He doesn't even want it, really; it's just something to keep his hands occupied. “Looks like it's just you and me.” Derek is taking slow, hesitant steps into the room, and his caution is ridiculous enough that Stiles feels the tension draining out of him. “Dude, relax. I'm not gonna bite.”

 

Derek snorts at that, but he stops moving like he's expecting an attack. He plants himself across the counter from Stiles, arms crossed as he studies him.

 

“So why the subterfuge?”

 

“You're kidding, right?” Stiles asks, eyebrows lifting towards his hairline. “After you took off this morning? Scott said the sandwich was good, by the way; almost makes me wish I'd kept it for myself.” He grins. “Any chance I could talk you into making me one? I didn't eat much in the way of dinner.”

 

“You . . .” Derek is staring at him like Stiles just slapped him across the face, a mixture of horror and hurt and confusion before his jaw tightens and his eyes shutter again. “Was that supposed to be a joke?”

 

“Um. No?” Stiles sets the can down on the counter, watching as Derek's eyes follow the movement. “I've never really seen the appeal of the 'make me a sandwich' brand of humor; it's sort of done to death, you know?” He steps away, stripping out of his jacket and tossing it over the back of a chair. The kitchen's too warm for this many layers. “So why'd you run away?”

 

“I didn't _run away._ ” Derek is visibly struggling to relax again, something that seems to be easier for him with Stiles at a little bit of a distance. “I remembered something that I had to do. You could've stuck around.”

 

Stiles just stares for a moment before he runs a hand over his face. “Okay, look. There are some things we've gotta talk about, and it would really help if you'd at least pretend that you don't think I'm an idiot.”

 

Derek scowls. “I _don't_ think you're an idiot.” He shifts uneasily. “And we really don't need to talk.”

 

“Yeah, we do,” Stiles insists. “If you don't want to, that's fine. _I'll_ talk; you can just keep your mouth shut and _listen_ for once. There are some things I've never really told you. About . . .” He rubs his palms against the sides of his legs. “About how I feel.”

 

“You've been perfectly clear about things, Stiles,” Derek says as his expression grows thunderous. “I don't need to hear it.”

 

“Yeah, well tough, because I need to say it.”

 

“Saying it out loud won't solve anything.” Derek's jaw clenches, and he turns away, heading for the door again. “You can show yourself out whenever you're ready to go.”

 

“Oh, no. No, like _hell_ are you brushing me off like that.” Stiles darts forward, planting himself in front of Derek with a hand braced against his chest. He's wearing a scowl of his own now, glowering into Derek's face like he can make him stop being an insufferable asshole by the power of his will alone. “Do you think this is easy for me? I spent years—I mean, _literally_ years—trying _not_ to say this, and all it's ever done is poison everything else I have. I can't even manage to . . . do you know that my last relationship lasted less than a month? I'm not saying it's your fault; I swear, I'm not trying to put that on you. But I have to do this, okay? I have to, so that we can both just . . . move on.”

 

Derek looks like he's struggling with an emotion that Stiles can't quite identify, and it hurts to realize that he would've recognized it easily years ago; that he was once read Derek's expressions so fluently that he did it without conscious thought. Now they're like a language that he's half-forgotten, and he's left floundering as Derek glances down at the hand still on his chest before he takes a deliberate step back.

 

“That's Scott's shirt,” he says, as though the words are significant in a way that Stiles doesn't understand. When Derek doesn't get a reaction he lets out a frustrated sigh, turning away to pace back to the counter. “Take it off,” he says tightly. “I'm not going to have this conversation with you smelling like pack.”

 

Stiles's stomach clenches, and he's abruptly glad that he's hardly eaten anything in the past few hours. He strips the t-shirt off and tosses it angrily towards his jacket; he's down to just a long-sleeved shirt now, and he feels oddly exposed.

 

“All right, jackass, now that your delicate sensibilities are no longer being offended, let's start with this _Stiles isn't pack_ bullshit.”

 

That has Derek turning to face him, and there's nothing ambiguous about the confusion on his face now. “What about it?”

 

“What—” Stiles fists his hands in his hair, barely resisting the urge to start tearing it out in clumps. “I honestly can't tell if you're being deliberately obtuse or if you're actually just this stupid.”

 

“What do you want from me, Stiles?” Derek yells abruptly, his own hands clenching into fists at his sides. “You said you weren't part of this pack. I've tried to respect that, I've tried to _understand_ it, but it never seems to be enough. You turn up here with a pair of cubs attached at your hips; you make dinner in my home, for my pack; you come here smelling like our only breeding couple; it's like you're bound and determined to deliver as many mixed signals as you possibly can, and what, you expect me to stay _polite_ about it?” A growl is building behind his words as he steps forward. “You're the one who rejected your place here, so don't come crying if the way I treat you reflects that.”

 

Stiles is staring. He can't help it, can't spare the brainpower to school his expression when he's struggling to understand what Derek's just accused him of.

 

“When did _I_ reject _anything_?” he demands at last, letting his own frustration grow to match Derek's. “I never—”

 

“Did you think Bianca wouldn't contact me after your meeting?” The question has the rest of Stiles's words dying on his tongue as Derek stares him down. “You declared yourself packless to another alpha—an alpha who's considered you one of ours for the past several years, who made accommodations to respect that—and you thought she wouldn't call demanding an explanation? And I, of course, got to look like an idiot, because I didn't _know_. Suddenly I'm an alpha who can't even keep track of his own pack members, who didn't even _realize—_ ”

 

“Wait, wait, hold on.” Stiles holds up a hand, scowling again now. “You're not actually going to pretend that you didn't have any idea that I would say that. You made _sure_ I knew _—_ ”

 

“What? That you were always welcome here? That you were important to—to us?”

 

“Oh, _bullshit._ You said you didn't want me to stick around; _you're_ the one who made it clear you didn't consider me pack.”

 

“I _never_ said that,” Derek growls, and Stiles scoffs.

 

“No, you never really had to. But excuse me if I didn't much feel like waiting to be asked to leave when I was already the only one that you never asked to stay. I was the only one you didn't offer the bite to, Derek; the only one you flat-out _refused._ ”

 

“You were _eighteen_ , Stiles. I told you I didn't want to keep you here; I never said I didn't want you to stay. You were still a kid, you weren't ready for—you needed to figure out who you were, what you wanted, and if I'd turned you then, you wouldn't have been able to do any of that.” He glances away, casting his eyes around the room like the words he's searching for might be hidden somewhere nearby. “I knew you might move on, might decide you didn't . . . but I always thought you'd still be _pack_.” Derek looks at Stiles again, hesitant and defensive and resigned. “I never thought that was something I might lose.”

 

“Why didn't you just _say_ that?” Stiles asks, his voice rough and open, so terrifyingly vulnerable that he has to cross his arms in front of his chest in a feeble attempt to shield himself. “Why didn't you ever just tell me that you wanted me to stay?”

 

“It was your choice to make.”

 

“It was Allison's and Lydia's, too,” he shoots back. “Why did they get options that I didn't?”

 

“It's not the same,” Derek hedges. “Their circumstances were different.”

 

“What, because they had mates in the pack?” Stiles asks, frowning. “Did you really only offer to turn them to keep Scott and Jackson around? Because that's fucked up, man.”

 

The look Derek shoots him is withering, and paradoxically makes Stiles have to fight to keep a grin off of his face. “If I have to treat you like you're not an idiot, _you_ have to stop pretending to be one. You know I wouldn't offer to turn someone if I didn't think that they deserved it. I wanted to keep Lydia and Allison around because they're both assets to the pack, with or without their mates.”

 

“But I'm not?” Stiles presses, and Derek groans.

 

“It's not that simple, Stiles.”

 

“I don't see why not. You say you wanted me in the pack, you offered the bite to them but not to me, there has to be a reason for—”

 

“Because I wouldn't have been able to let you go,” Derek finally snaps. “I wouldn't have been able to let you leave, not without . . . you weren't ready for what I would've asked you for.”

 

“And what gave you the right to decide that? Why did you get to be the one who said what I was ready for?” He takes a step closer, glaring because how _dare_ Derek? “You don't have the first clue about what I need, that much is obvious.”

 

“Then why don't you _tell me_ instead of trying to make me guess?” Derek demands, and Stiles . . .

 

Stiles is kissing him before he can talk himself out of it. Stubble is a rough scrape against his chin, the sensitive skin of his upper lip, but soft as velvet beneath his palms where he's framing Derek's face, holding him still as Stiles fits their mouths together. Derek's lips are as soft as he'd imagined, still slack with surprise until Stiles presses in harder. Then Derek is pressing back with a hesitant, slow-building heat that Stiles can feel in the tense lines of his body, in the way fingers tighten and clutch at the front of his shirt like Derek can somehow drag him closer. Stiles lets out a noise at that, soft and broken and eager, the sound of something deep and vital coming loose inside of him.

 

And then abruptly there's sharp pressure against his chest as he's shoved away, stumbling back halfway across the kitchen while Derek stares at him, panting and furious.

 

“I . . .” Stiles is shaken, unmoored; he lifts a hand to his lips, to skin already starting to swell, and fights against the wave of sickness that wants to overtake him. “Sorry,” he manages. “I . . . shouldn't have—”

 

“No.” Derek sounds wrecked; Stiles's stomach gives another slow, sick roll. “You can't just—I'm not _convenient_ , Stiles.”

 

“You think?” Stiles can't help but laugh, because he's having trouble breathing and sarcasm is still his second nature. “You never have been; that's the problem.”

 

“I can't just be a stand-in for you. I _won't_. So sorry, but you're going to have to find someone in your new pack to scratch that itch.”

 

“Someone—god damn it.” Stiles pinches at the bridge of his nose, trying to keep his head from spinning straight off his shoulders. “You lost me again. I thought we'd already established that this _is_ my pack. Didn't we _just_ go over this?”

 

“Now who's being deliberately obtuse?” Derek asks angrily. “You _rejected_ us. In front of an other alpha, who you _accepted food_ from. You gave her implicit permission to court you for her pack; have you forgotten that?”

 

Stiles blinks at him. “It was a _muffin_.”

 

“It was symbolic,” Derek grits out.

 

“Okay, you know how ridiculous that sounds, right?”

 

“I'm aware.” He sighs heavily, anger draining out of him as he rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “That doesn't change the fact that this isn't going to work. It would mean you making a decision right away, because I can't just give you something casual, Stiles. Not with what you mean—what you meant to me.”

 

“No, hold on. Just . . . just hold on.” Stiles edges forward, frustrated and amused in equal parts when Derek steps warily back. “Let's back up to the part where you accidentally admit that you have feelings for me.”

  
“Don't. This isn't what you—”

 

“No, uh-uh. You don't get to tell me what I'm ready for, or what I want, or what I _need_ , Derek,” Stiles says quietly. “If you don't want to get involved with me because you aren't attracted to me, or just not interested, then say so. But you said that you wanted me to have the freedom to live my life, to figure out who I am, to . . . to _find_ myself, or whatever weak-ass self-help phrase you want to use. And I might be a little slow, because it's taken me this long to realize it, but I'm never going to be able to do that anywhere else.”

 

“Stiles.”

 

“There's too much of me left behind here,” he presses on. “With my dad, and the pack, and this whole stupid, monster-infested town. And it might sound like the cheesiest, sappiest thing ever—this from a guy who had a front-row seat for Scott and Allison's early days of romance, so that's really saying something—but the biggest part of me has always been tied up with you. I tried staying away, tried letting these feelings just die off on their own. It didn't work; it never even came close.”

 

“I can't—”

 

“I think that you should kiss me.”

 

Derek squeezes his eyes closed. “Stiles, _stop_.”

 

“Make me.” He's grinning when Derek opens his eyes again to glare at him. “You might have to get a little closer to manage that, though. Might even have to touch me again.”

 

He's half-expecting the growl that comes with Derek's patience finally snapping, the surge of sudden purpose that makes him stride forward and seize Stiles's shoulders in a hard, unrelenting grip. The fact that Derek seems more intent on shutting him up than doing anything interesting with their new position isn't terribly surprising, either. But Stiles finds himself caught off-guard by the open desperation in Derek's eyes, the resignation he sees there before Derek lets him go to slide a hand around the back of Stiles's neck, pulling him in for a kiss that feels hard and sharp and _necessary_.

 

“I won't be able to let you go,” Derek growls against his lips, fisting a hand in the fabric at the small of Stiles's back and hauling him closer. “It was hard enough before . . . if we do this, I can't—”

 

“Good.” Stiles runs his hands through Derek's hair, petting and tugging while he scatters tiny bites along the length of his jaw. “Fucking . . . _good_. I don't know what made you think I'd want you to, _god_ , get with the freaking program, Hale.”

 

Derek's mouth finds his again, messy and wet, too insistent to be careful. Stiles meets Derek's tongue with his own, kissing back every bit as fiercely. He feels like he could drown in the taste of him, the scent and the _heat_ of him, and he can't get close enough. The grip he still has on Derek's hair helps him steer them around; with a careful shove he has Derek collapsing onto one of the chairs, breathing heavily as he stares up at Stiles. He takes a moment to admire the view—wet red lips and blown, heavy-lidded eyes—before he straddles Derek's thighs and leans down to kiss him again.

 

Between his hands braced on Derek's shoulders and Derek's possessive grip on his ass, Stiles has the perfect leverage to start working his hips in a slow, suggestive roll. Derek breaks away from Stiles's mouth to shift his attention to his neck instead; there are going to be bruises and teethmarks there in the morning, and the knowledge has Stiles groaning, grinding down more insistently. He's so hard he aches with it, every slide of his cock against Derek's a fresh, bright torment. Then Derek's hands lift, slipping beneath the hem of Stiles's shirt to trace the curve of his spine, blunt human nails scratching lightly on the way back down. Stiles shudders, pulling away long enough to strip the stupid thing off.

 

“You, too,” he says, tugging at Derek's shirt the second he gets rid of his own. “Come on, good relationships are based in equality. Strip, wolf boy.”

 

“You're ridiculous,” Derek grumbles, but he's tugging his shirt over his head as he says it so Stiles isn't too inclined to take offense. “I actually have no idea how you manage to survive in the adult world.”

 

“Says the guy who didn't have running water for half a year after he first moved back to town.” Stiles groans as Derek slides the flat of his tongue over his collarbone, pausing to suck another livid red mark into his skin. “Fuck,” Stiles says on a long, drawn-out moan. “Derek. God, I want you to fuck me.”

 

It's not exactly what he meant to say, but he's really not sorry when Derek's hips give a quick jerk into his as he buries his face in Stiles's chest. Stiles takes the opportunity to let his own hands roam, over Derek's shoulders and back, up his neck and into his hair. Derek's breathing is warm and uneven against his skin, sending Stiles's mind wandering to what it would be like to feel that mouth all over his body, hot and intent and—

 

“We should move. Upstairs,” Derek says at last, interrupting that particular train of thought, even as he tilts his head to swipe his tongue over one of Stiles's nipples.

 

“Oh my god,” Stiles moans, giving a hard shudder before he shakes his head. “No. Here; I don't want to move, don't want to wait, I just want you _in_ me. You have no idea how many times I've thought about it, since I was seventeen freaking years old, _god_ , just fuck me already, Derek.”

 

Derek smothers a noise against his shoulder that's half-groan, half-laugh. “I don't exactly have lube stashed in the kitchen, Stiles.”

 

“That's just tragically poor planning on your part, really.” Stiles leans down to mouth at Derek's ear, humming in contentment when he nips sharply at the lobe and feels the shivers that wrack Derek's body in response. “I'll expect better in the future. But I'm sure you'll think of something for now; you can be creative if you're motivated enough, I believe in you.”

 

“How did I never realize how incredibly high-maintenance you could be?” Derek grumbles before he slides his hands beneath Stiles's ass, lifting him as he stands in one swift movement. He deposits Stiles on the table and cuts off his protest with a hard, brief kiss. “Stay,” he growls, and stalks over to the open pantry door.

 

Stiles takes the opportunity to strip out of the rest of his clothes, though he wishes he'd kept his underwear on when his bare ass hits the cool, smooth wood. He only has a moment to squirm, however, before Derek is back, a bottle of olive oil clutched in one hand, and Stiles only stops laughing when his back hits the table and Derek is sucking Stiles's tongue into his mouth.

 

It's only moments before Stiles is struggling to breathe properly, bucking up into the hand that Derek has wrapped around his cock, wide palm and long fingers and just shy of enough pressure. The tease of it has Stiles gasping, squirming as he tries to get more, tries to get Derek to touch him the way he needs. Instead of taking the hint, Derek pulls his mouth away, trailing it down Stiles's body and yes, yeah, okay, this works too.

 

Tongue and teeth and lips set to work in a maddening tease, skating over his stomach and thighs and the jut of his hipbones while Derek grasps his waist and tugs him towards the edge of the table. There's a suddenly slick finger sliding over his entrance when Derek's mouth finally wraps around his cock; Stiles lets out a shuddering sigh and spreads his legs as wide as he can manage, trying to thrust forward into both sensations at once. Derek's tongue twists as his finger finally presses inside, and when Stiles looks down it's to see that Derek's eyes are closed in concentration, his nose flaring each time his head lowers as he pulls in as much of Stiles's scent as he can manage.

 

As if he's felt the weight of Stiles's gaze, Derek's eyes open; Stiles manages to meet them for a handful of rapid heartbeats until it proves too much, and he lets his head fall back again with a groan and a muffled _thunk_ against the tabletop.

 

Stiles's mind becomes a haze of pleasure that's just shy of enough: the occasional burning stretch as Derek adds more fingers; his mouth, wet and clever as he keeps Stiles hard without letting him near the edge. Stiles thinks he might be making noises by now, but can't quite bring himself to care. It's Derek taking him apart like this, touching him the way he has in any number of fantasies that Stiles has always tried to deny having, and it's more than he can take and retain his sanity. He feels empty despite Derek's fingers pumping in and out of him, twisting and stretching and opening him up. He needs more—needs the weight of Derek's body over him, needs the firm press of him between his legs, needs to be able to grip and hold and feel for himself that this is _real_.

 

“Derek.” Stiles threads his hands through Derek's hair, the only part of him that he can reach, and tugs until Derek lifts his head. “Oh, shit,” Stiles breathes out; Derek's mouth is slick and red, still slightly swollen, and Stiles has to fight the urge to shove him back down so that he can finish what he started. Instead he keeps pulling, urging Derek up so that Stiles can suck the taste of himself off of his tongue. “I'm good, I'm ready. Come on. Come on, come on, _please_.”

 

“I don't have a condom.” Derek sucks Stiles's lower lip into his mouth, teeth scraping as he releases it. “Stiles, are you _sure_ —”

 

“Oh my god, _yes_ , now stop being such a fucking _tease_.”

 

Derek's eyes look dangerous when they meet Stiles's again; it's possible that Stiles should be concerned by how big a turn-on that is for him. He'll look into that later, when he's not busy holding out his hand to let Derek pour a pool of olive oil into his palm, taking in the rich, warm smell of it while Derek finally strips out of the last of his clothes. Stiles reaches down to stroke the thick oil over Derek's cock, and he can't help laughing a little under his breath. Derek's breathing is unsteady, but he still manages to cock an eyebrow, and a grin spreads over Stiles's face.

 

“Just remembering an article I read once about how olive oil is good for the skin. I feel like I'm giving your dick a beauty treatment.”

 

Derek groans, though he doesn't stop lifting Stiles's legs up to wrap loosely around his waist. “Are you constitutionally incapable of being serious?”

 

“It's possible.” Stiles's breath catches as the head of Derek's cock nudges against him, sliding over the rim where he's stretched loose and open. “You should . . . _ah_ , see what you can do about that.”

 

Derek's answer is to start pushing slowly inside, inch by careful inch, until Stiles makes a frustrated noise and tightens his legs, trying to pull him deeper. He knows that his strength isn't enough to budge Derek, but thankfully he seems willing enough to take the hint; he presses forward, one smooth, sharp thrust that brings his hips flush against Stiles's, and they stay like that for a moment, mouths brushing together in touches so light that Stiles doesn't even think they count as kisses.

 

Then Derek is moving—slow, _push-drag_ rolls of his hips that leave Stiles breathless, and his hands clutch and scratch at Derek's back as he moves to meet him as best he can. The table is too hard beneath him, slippery with sweat and a thin sheen of oil; he can't get traction, can only brace himself as best he can and hang on as Derek's thrusts start coming faster, harder, like he can lose himself in Stiles if he only keeps trying.

 

Stiles can't spare a hand for himself when he feels Derek's rhythm begin to falter. He just clings tighter, managing broken words of encouragement every few thrusts, as eager to feel Derek coming inside of him as he is for his own release. When he feels the base of Derek's cock begin to swell he lets out an eager noise, only to have it turn to protesting disappointment when Derek begins to pull back.

 

“No, no no no, come back.” Stiles tightens his legs again, trying to keep Derek inside. “What are you doing? Don't stop, _god_ , don't stop, what the fuck, Derek?”

 

“If I don't pull out now I won't be able to,” Derek grits out. His hips give another stuttering push forward of their own volition, and Stiles groans his approval. “Stiles—”

 

“Would you stop giving me, like, zero credit?” He manages to shift higher, clenching his muscles around Derek until he lets out a soft stream of curses. “My best friend's a werewolf; I've been fantasizing about _you_ since I was barely post-pubescent; do you think I haven't done my homework? Do you want to hear about all the times I've thought about this happening? Or do you just want to finish fucking me and have a heart-to-heart after your knot goes down?”

 

That seems to be all it takes to shred the last tattered threads of Derek's control; he grips Stiles's shoulders, and with a deep growl starts to fuck into him in earnest, hard thrusts that rattle Stiles's teeth and drive the air from his lungs. He hitches his legs higher, and the new angle has sparks suddenly sizzling up and down his spine as Derek's cock skims over his prostate. Derek is beginning to swell again, pushing deeper and deeper as he does, until finally with one last short, hard thrust and a deep groan, he's coming inside of him. It goes on for what feels like forever, filling Stiles's body, centering him where they're connected, where the base of Derek's knot is catching against his rim.

 

He feels impossibly full, stretched to the point of breaking, and doesn't realize that he's shaking until Derek rubs a warm, comforting hand over his stomach and he feels the tremors ease. Derek doesn't stop as Stiles relaxes, continuing with firm strokes, fingers splaying and contracting over his skin in a soothing rhythm. Stiles's legs start to slip and his hips shift with the movement; he feels Derek's knot tug hard against him, but this time his cock gives an interested twitch at the sensation. He's gone half-soft by now, but he starts to harden again as he moves deliberately, testing; when Derek's hand wraps around him he couldn't stop his groan of relief if he tried.

 

“That's it.” Derek's voice is soft and sated as he noses at Stiles's ear, at the side of his neck. “That's good. You look so good stretched around me, so good with my knot in you. Like you were made for this.” His hand moves faster, stroking and tugging. “Come for me, Stiles. Just let go.”

 

Three, four, five more strokes and Stiles does, coming with a strangled noise over Derek's hands and his own stomach, his body clenching and spasming around Derek's knot and setting off a sharp wave of aftershocks. Derek settles on top of him immediately, the mess of Stiles's release smearing between them, mouths meeting in a sloppy, unfocused kiss.

 

“Okay,” Stiles says when he can breathe again. As the pleasure begins to fade he's becoming increasingly aware of the state that he's in: covered in sweat and oil and semen, sore muscles protesting the unyielding table beneath him. His tailbone aches, and he doesn't even want to begin to think about how he probably smells. “Next time, definitely: bed. With actual lube, and pillows, and a mattress that isn't made of wood.” He shifts a little, as best he can, and his stomach flutters as Derek's knot tugs at him again. “So, uh. How long does this usually last?”

 

“Fifteen minutes.” Derek's forehead is resting against the curve of Stiles's shoulder. “Maybe half an hour. You're not comfortable?”

 

“I'm covered in my own bodily fluids and pinned to the kitchen table by over two-hundred pounds of werewolf, what do you think?”

 

“You're the one who insisted on me fucking you in the kitchen instead of going upstairs.” Derek nips at Stiles's jaw. “Hold onto me.”

 

“Why, you think cuddling will make my leg cramps go away?”

 

“Can you just do this _one thing_ without arguing?”

 

“Fine, fine.” It's not like it's a hardship, really, wrapping himself around Derek. There's a sudden movement, Derek's hands sliding under him to cup his ass again, and then Derek is hauling him up until they're both upright. “ _Ah_. Um.”

 

“We're going upstairs,” Derek says, and starts to make his way out of the kitchen.

 

“Fu- _uck._ ” Each step has Derek shifting inside of him, stimulating oversensitive nerve endings until Stiles can't tell if he's being taken apart by pleasure or pain. “You're bossy, do you know that?” He snorts. “Of course you do, Mr. _I'm-the-Alpha_ ; bossiness is like your stock-in-trade.” He buries his face in Derek's neck, trailing a lazy line of bites and kisses across his skin while he's there. “You're lucky I love you enough to put up with it.”

 

He can feel Derek's chest rise and fall in a deep breath, and he's gathered closer yet.

 

“I know.” He gives Stiles's ass a quick squeeze. “You ready for the stairs?”

 

Stiles lets out a despairing moan, but nods. “Bring it on.”

 

 

*****

 

 

Stiles isn't quite asleep when he feels Derek stir behind him, feels the arm draped over his side curl into a gentle grip. Soft lips rest against the nape of his neck, over the bruise that Derek bit into the flesh there there over an hour ago.

 

“I love you, too.”

 

The words are felt more than heard, breathed against his skin like a secret promise. He leans back into it, sleep-warm and sated, and smiles warmly. Eventually, he knows, Derek will say the words without having to pretend to believe that Stiles is asleep. In the meantime, Stiles can be patient.

 

They have plenty of time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I encourage you to come and hang out with me on Tumblr, where you can find me under the name hungrylikethewolfie. Lots of Teen Wolf shenanigans there at the moment, as well as the occasional insight into my writing process. (If you've ever had a hankering to see someone have a mental breakdown over her inability to slap some sense into fictional characters, it's the place to be.)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we have it, the end of the end of the end! (Unless I decide to do an epilogue. Which I might. But no promises.) My apologies for the general crappiness here; I think a lot of things worked better in my head than when I actually sat down to write them. >_far fewer terrible ideas. <3

 

He knows that things have gotten ridiculous when he seriously considers napping in Scott's car, just to make sure the scent takes.

 

Instead, Stiles spends the rest of the day trying to keep himself occupied. He makes inquiries at the high school about potential openings and the sort of experience they'll be looking for. He sifts through the _rentals_ section of the classifieds and starts compiling information about cost versus amenities, because he appreciates his dad's offer but he's not exactly thrilled with the idea of moving back into his old bedroom. He idly browses the web for a while, ending up switching back and forth between half a dozen cooking websites and a paranormal investigation forum that he thinks might actually not be complete bullshit.

 

No matter how things go with Derek tonight, this is the life that Stiles is choosing for himself, and he's determined to head into it fully prepared.

 

He does leave Scott's shirt in the car, in the interest of preserving the scent. No point in shooting himself in the foot there, after all.

 

The thing is, there's a reason why Stiles tends to go off half-cocked, jumping into action as soon as the barest semblance of a plan is in place, and that reason is simply this: he _hates_ waiting. Hates it deep down to the marrow of his bones, and would probably never wait for anything ever again if that were actually an option for his life. Waiting gives him too much time to think, to _obsess_ , to go over the millions of different ways that what he's planning to do could go horribly, spectacularly wrong. He's all for plans, he really is; he just prefers to develop them on the fly, while he has enough immediate action to distract the part of his brain that absolutely knows better.

 

When he'd been sixteen and overheard his dad talking about the dead body in the woods, he'd rushed over to Scott's house the second he'd gotten shoes on his feet. That's been the pattern of his life since then, and despite the occasional concussion and contusion and best-friend-turned-into-a-creature-of-the-night, he thinks it's worked out pretty well so far.

 

By the time he pulls up in front of the Hale house, Stiles can't quite decide if it's a good or bad thing that he's had way too much time to think about the possible pitfalls of this plan. In the _pros_ column: he is fully prepared to plant himself in Derek's bed in the hopes that Derek will eventually have to sleep.

 

In the _cons_ : his hands are shaking the second he takes them off the steering wheel.

 

Because the upshot of it all is that he's never stopped being afraid of Derek. Not really. True, it's been years and what feels like lifetimes since he figured out that Derek's bark was worse than his bite, and nearly just as long since he realized that he no longer believed that Derek might actually hurt him. But just when he no longer saw Derek as a threat to life and limb, Stiles had to face the fact that he had become an emotional threat, instead.

 

Which was, and is, just . . . so, _so_ much worse.

 

Bruises and lacerations and concussions all heal. In Stiles's experience it's rejection, it's _loss_ that will cut you just as deep five, ten years down the road. Stiles had always been careful about letting anyone in enough to hurt him; the fact that Derek Hale of all people has managed to snarl and sneer and bluster his way beneath his skin is, frankly, still a little bit baffling. The fact that he's the one with the power to leave him terrified of the pain he's sure is coming is downright _infuriating_.

 

Stiles holds on to that feeling, lets the irritation smother the fear long enough to get out of the car, to march up the front steps and into the house without so much as a courtesy knock.

 

“Stiles?” Derek steps out of the living room, looking unfairly good in a simple henley and jeans, and frowning as Stiles strides past him. “Where are Scott and Allison?”

 

“At home, probably,” Stiles says over his shoulder. He doesn't even slow down on his way to the kitchen—it's the only place in the house that feels like neutral territory, and he needs every edge he can get right now. “Scott said something about making pork chops.”

 

He heads immediately for the fridge, poking around inside until he finds a can of Coke that he can swipe. When he turns around Derek is standing in the doorway, his frown escalated to a scowl. In a weird way, it eases Stiles's nerves a little. The comfort of the familiar, he suppose.

 

“They're not coming.” It's not a question, really, and Stiles doesn't pretend to believe otherwise.

 

“Not tonight,” he says, fidgeting with the can he's still holding. He doesn't even want it, really; it's just something to keep his hands occupied. “Looks like it's just you and me.” Derek is taking slow, hesitant steps into the room, and his caution is ridiculous enough that Stiles feels the tension draining out of him. “Dude, relax. I'm not gonna bite.”

 

Derek snorts at that, but he stops moving like he's expecting an attack. He plants himself across the counter from Stiles, arms crossed as he studies him.

 

“So why the subterfuge?”

 

“You're kidding, right?” Stiles asks, eyebrows lifting towards his hairline. “After you took off this morning? Scott said the sandwich was good, by the way; almost makes me wish I'd kept it for myself.” He grins. “Any chance I could talk you into making me one? I didn't eat much in the way of dinner.”

 

“You . . .” Derek is staring at him like Stiles just slapped him across the face, a mixture of horror and hurt and confusion before his jaw tightens and his eyes shutter again. “Was that supposed to be a joke?”

 

“Um. No?” Stiles sets the can down on the counter, watching as Derek's eyes follow the movement. “I've never really seen the appeal of the 'make me a sandwich' brand of humor; it's sort of done to death, you know?” He steps away, stripping out of his jacket and tossing it over the back of a chair. The kitchen's too warm for this many layers. “So why'd you run away?”

 

“I didn't _run away._ ” Derek is visibly struggling to relax again, something that seems to be easier for him with Stiles at a little bit of a distance. “I remembered something that I had to do. You could've stuck around.”

 

Stiles just stares for a moment before he runs a hand over his face. “Okay, look. There are some things we've gotta talk about, and it would really help if you'd at least pretend that you don't think I'm an idiot.”

 

Derek scowls. “I _don't_ think you're an idiot.” He shifts uneasily. “And we really don't need to talk.”

 

“Yeah, we do,” Stiles insists. “If you don't want to, that's fine. _I'll_ talk; you can just keep your mouth shut and _listen_ for once. There are some things I've never really told you. About . . .” He rubs his palms against the sides of his legs. “About how I feel.”

 

“You've been perfectly clear about things, Stiles,” Derek says as his expression grows thunderous. “I don't need to hear it.”

 

“Yeah, well tough, because I need to say it.”

 

“Saying it out loud won't solve anything.” Derek's jaw clenches, and he turns away, heading for the door again. “You can show yourself out whenever you're ready to go.”

 

“Oh, no. No, like _hell_ are you brushing me off like that.” Stiles darts forward, planting himself in front of Derek with a hand braced against his chest. He's wearing a scowl of his own now, glowering into Derek's face like he can make him stop being an insufferable asshole by the power of his will alone. “Do you think this is easy for me? I spent years—I mean, _literally_ years—trying _not_ to say this, and all it's ever done is poison everything else I have. I can't even manage to . . . do you know that my last relationship lasted less than a month? I'm not saying it's your fault; I swear, I'm not trying to put that on you. But I have to do this, okay? I have to, so that we can both just . . . move on.”

 

Derek looks like he's struggling with an emotion that Stiles can't quite identify, and it hurts to realize that he would've recognized it easily years ago; that he was once read Derek's expressions so fluently that he did it without conscious thought. Now they're like a language that he's half-forgotten, and he's left floundering as Derek glances down at the hand still on his chest before he takes a deliberate step back.

 

“That's Scott's shirt,” he says, as though the words are significant in a way that Stiles doesn't understand. When Derek doesn't get a reaction he lets out a frustrated sigh, turning away to pace back to the counter. “Take it off,” he says tightly. “I'm not going to have this conversation with you smelling like pack.”

 

Stiles's stomach clenches, and he's abruptly glad that he's hardly eaten anything in the past few hours. He strips the t-shirt off and tosses it angrily towards his jacket; he's down to just a long-sleeved shirt now, and he feels oddly exposed.

 

“All right, jackass, now that your delicate sensibilities are no longer being offended, let's start with this _Stiles isn't pack_ bullshit.”

 

That has Derek turning to face him, and there's nothing ambiguous about the confusion on his face now. “What about it?”

 

“What—” Stiles fists his hands in his hair, barely resisting the urge to start tearing it out in clumps. “I honestly can't tell if you're being deliberately obtuse or if you're actually just this stupid.”

 

“What do you want from me, Stiles?” Derek yells abruptly, his own hands clenching into fists at his sides. “You said you weren't part of this pack. I've tried to respect that, I've tried to _understand_ it, but it never seems to be enough. You turn up here with a pair of cubs attached at your hips; you make dinner in my home, for my pack; you come here smelling like our only breeding couple; it's like you're bound and determined to deliver as many mixed signals as you possibly can, and what, you expect me to stay _polite_ about it?” A growl is building behind his words as he steps forward. “You're the one who rejected your place here, so don't come crying if the way I treat you reflects that.”

 

Stiles is staring. He can't help it, can't spare the brainpower to school his expression when he's struggling to understand what Derek's just accused him of.

 

“When did _I_ reject _anything_?” he demands at last, letting his own frustration grow to match Derek's. “I never—”

 

“Did you think Bianca wouldn't contact me after your meeting?” The question has the rest of Stiles's words dying on his tongue as Derek stares him down. “You declared yourself packless to another alpha—an alpha who's considered you one of ours for the past several years, who made accommodations to respect that—and you thought she wouldn't call demanding an explanation? And I, of course, got to look like an idiot, because I didn't _know_. Suddenly I'm an alpha who can't even keep track of his own pack members, who didn't even _realize—_ ”

 

“Wait, wait, hold on.” Stiles holds up a hand, scowling again now. “You're not actually going to pretend that you didn't have any idea that I would say that. You made _sure_ I knew _—_ ”

 

“What? That you were always welcome here? That you were important to—to us?”

 

“Oh, _bullshit._ You said you didn't want me to stick around; _you're_ the one who made it clear you didn't consider me pack.”

 

“I _never_ said that,” Derek growls, and Stiles scoffs.

 

“No, you never really had to. But excuse me if I didn't much feel like waiting to be asked to leave when I was already the only one that you never asked to stay. I was the only one you didn't offer the bite to, Derek; the only one you flat-out _refused._ ”

 

“You were _eighteen_ , Stiles. I told you I didn't want to keep you here; I never said I didn't want you to stay. You were still a kid, you weren't ready for—you needed to figure out who you were, what you wanted, and if I'd turned you then, you wouldn't have been able to do any of that.” He glances away, casting his eyes around the room like the words he's searching for might be hidden somewhere nearby. “I knew you might move on, might decide you didn't . . . but I always thought you'd still be _pack_.” Derek looks at Stiles again, hesitant and defensive and resigned. “I never thought that was something I might lose.”

 

“Why didn't you just _say_ that?” Stiles asks, his voice rough and open, so terrifyingly vulnerable that he has to cross his arms in front of his chest in a feeble attempt to shield himself. “Why didn't you ever just tell me that you wanted me to stay?”

 

“It was your choice to make.”

 

“It was Allison's and Lydia's, too,” he shoots back. “Why did they get options that I didn't?”

 

“It's not the same,” Derek hedges. “Their circumstances were different.”

 

“What, because they had mates in the pack?” Stiles asks, frowning. “Did you really only offer to turn them to keep Scott and Jackson around? Because that's fucked up, man.”

 

The look Derek shoots him is withering, and paradoxically makes Stiles have to fight to keep a grin off of his face. “If I have to treat you like you're not an idiot, _you_ have to stop pretending to be one. You know I wouldn't offer to turn someone if I didn't think that they deserved it. I wanted to keep Lydia and Allison around because they're both assets to the pack, with or without their mates.”

 

“But I'm not?” Stiles presses, and Derek groans.

 

“It's not that simple, Stiles.”

 

“I don't see why not. You say you wanted me in the pack, you offered the bite to them but not to me, there has to be a reason for—”

 

“Because I wouldn't have been able to let you go,” Derek finally snaps. “I wouldn't have been able to let you leave, not without . . . you weren't ready for what I would've asked you for.”

 

“And what gave you the right to decide that? Why did you get to be the one who said what I was ready for?” He takes a step closer, glaring because how _dare_ Derek? “You don't have the first clue about what I need, that much is obvious.”

 

“Then why don't you _tell me_ instead of trying to make me guess?” Derek demands, and Stiles . . .

 

Stiles is kissing him before he can talk himself out of it. Stubble is a rough scrape against his chin, the sensitive skin of his upper lip, but soft as velvet beneath his palms where he's framing Derek's face, holding him still as Stiles fits their mouths together. Derek's lips are as soft as he'd imagined, still slack with surprise until Stiles presses in harder. Then Derek is pressing back with a hesitant, slow-building heat that Stiles can feel in the tense lines of his body, in the way fingers tighten and clutch at the front of his shirt like Derek can somehow drag him closer. Stiles lets out a noise at that, soft and broken and eager, the sound of something deep and vital coming loose inside of him.

 

And then abruptly there's sharp pressure against his chest as he's shoved away, stumbling back halfway across the kitchen while Derek stares at him, panting and furious.

 

“I . . .” Stiles is shaken, unmoored; he lifts a hand to his lips, to skin already starting to swell, and fights against the wave of sickness that wants to overtake him. “Sorry,” he manages. “I . . . shouldn't have—”

 

“No.” Derek sounds wrecked; Stiles's stomach gives another slow, sick roll. “You can't just—I'm not _convenient_ , Stiles.”

 

“You think?” Stiles can't help but laugh, because he's having trouble breathing and sarcasm is still his second nature. “You never have been; that's the problem.”

 

“I can't just be a stand-in for you. I _won't_. So sorry, but you're going to have to find someone in your new pack to scratch that itch.”

 

“Someone—god damn it.” Stiles pinches at the bridge of his nose, trying to keep his head from spinning straight off his shoulders. “You lost me again. I thought we'd already established that this _is_ my pack. Didn't we _just_ go over this?”

 

“Now who's being deliberately obtuse?” Derek asks angrily. “You _rejected_ us. In front of an other alpha, who you _accepted food_ from. You gave her implicit permission to court you for her pack; have you forgotten that?”

 

Stiles blinks at him. “It was a _muffin_.”

 

“It was symbolic,” Derek grits out.

 

“Okay, you know how ridiculous that sounds, right?”

 

“I'm aware.” He sighs heavily, anger draining out of him as he rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “That doesn't change the fact that this isn't going to work. It would mean you making a decision right away, because I can't just give you something casual, Stiles. Not with what you mean—what you meant to me.”

 

“No, hold on. Just . . . just hold on.” Stiles edges forward, frustrated and amused in equal parts when Derek steps warily back. “Let's back up to the part where you accidentally admit that you have feelings for me.”

  
“Don't. This isn't what you—”

 

“No, uh-uh. You don't get to tell me what I'm ready for, or what I want, or what I _need_ , Derek,” Stiles says quietly. “If you don't want to get involved with me because you aren't attracted to me, or just not interested, then say so. But you said that you wanted me to have the freedom to live my life, to figure out who I am, to . . . to _find_ myself, or whatever weak-ass self-help phrase you want to use. And I might be a little slow, because it's taken me this long to realize it, but I'm never going to be able to do that anywhere else.”

 

“Stiles.”

 

“There's too much of me left behind here,” he presses on. “With my dad, and the pack, and this whole stupid, monster-infested town. And it might sound like the cheesiest, sappiest thing ever—this from a guy who had a front-row seat for Scott and Allison's early days of romance, so that's really saying something—but the biggest part of me has always been tied up with you. I tried staying away, tried letting these feelings just die off on their own. It didn't work; it never even came close.”

 

“I can't—”

 

“I think that you should kiss me.”

 

Derek squeezes his eyes closed. “Stiles, _stop_.”

 

“Make me.” He's grinning when Derek opens his eyes again to glare at him. “You might have to get a little closer to manage that, though. Might even have to touch me again.”

 

He's half-expecting the growl that comes with Derek's patience finally snapping, the surge of sudden purpose that makes him stride forward and seize Stiles's shoulders in a hard, unrelenting grip. The fact that Derek seems more intent on shutting him up than doing anything interesting with their new position isn't terribly surprising, either. But Stiles finds himself caught off-guard by the open desperation in Derek's eyes, the resignation he sees there before Derek lets him go to slide a hand around the back of Stiles's neck, pulling him in for a kiss that feels hard and sharp and _necessary_.

 

“I won't be able to let you go,” Derek growls against his lips, fisting a hand in the fabric at the small of Stiles's back and hauling him closer. “It was hard enough before . . . if we do this, I can't—”

 

“Good.” Stiles runs his hands through Derek's hair, petting and tugging while he scatters tiny bites along the length of his jaw. “Fucking . . . _good_. I don't know what made you think I'd want you to, _god_ , get with the freaking program, Hale.”

 

Derek's mouth finds his again, messy and wet, too insistent to be careful. Stiles meets Derek's tongue with his own, kissing back every bit as fiercely. He feels like he could drown in the taste of him, the scent and the _heat_ of him, and he can't get close enough. The grip he still has on Derek's hair helps him steer them around; with a careful shove he has Derek collapsing onto one of the chairs, breathing heavily as he stares up at Stiles. He takes a moment to admire the view—wet red lips and blown, heavy-lidded eyes—before he straddles Derek's thighs and leans down to kiss him again.

 

Between his hands braced on Derek's shoulders and Derek's possessive grip on his ass, Stiles has the perfect leverage to start working his hips in a slow, suggestive roll. Derek breaks away from Stiles's mouth to shift his attention to his neck instead; there are going to be bruises and teethmarks there in the morning, and the knowledge has Stiles groaning, grinding down more insistently. He's so hard he aches with it, every slide of his cock against Derek's a fresh, bright torment. Then Derek's hands lift, slipping beneath the hem of Stiles's shirt to trace the curve of his spine, blunt human nails scratching lightly on the way back down. Stiles shudders, pulling away long enough to strip the stupid thing off.

 

“You, too,” he says, tugging at Derek's shirt the second he gets rid of his own. “Come on, good relationships are based in equality. Strip, wolf boy.”

 

“You're ridiculous,” Derek grumbles, but he's tugging his shirt over his head as he says it so Stiles isn't too inclined to take offense. “I actually have no idea how you manage to survive in the adult world.”

 

“Says the guy who didn't have running water for half a year after he first moved back to town.” Stiles groans as Derek slides the flat of his tongue over his collarbone, pausing to suck another livid red mark into his skin. “Fuck,” Stiles says on a long, drawn-out moan. “Derek. God, I want you to fuck me.”

 

It's not exactly what he meant to say, but he's really not sorry when Derek's hips give a quick jerk into his as he buries his face in Stiles's chest. Stiles takes the opportunity to let his own hands roam, over Derek's shoulders and back, up his neck and into his hair. Derek's breathing is warm and uneven against his skin, sending Stiles's mind wandering to what it would be like to feel that mouth all over his body, hot and intent and—

 

“We should move. Upstairs,” Derek says at last, interrupting that particular train of thought, even as he tilts his head to swipe his tongue over one of Stiles's nipples.

 

“Oh my god,” Stiles moans, giving a hard shudder before he shakes his head. “No. Here; I don't want to move, don't want to wait, I just want you _in_ me. You have no idea how many times I've thought about it, since I was seventeen freaking years old, _god_ , just fuck me already, Derek.”

 

Derek smothers a noise against his shoulder that's half-groan, half-laugh. “I don't exactly have lube stashed in the kitchen, Stiles.”

 

“That's just tragically poor planning on your part, really.” Stiles leans down to mouth at Derek's ear, humming in contentment when he nips sharply at the lobe and feels the shivers that wrack Derek's body in response. “I'll expect better in the future. But I'm sure you'll think of something for now; you can be creative if you're motivated enough, I believe in you.”

 

“How did I never realize how incredibly high-maintenance you could be?” Derek grumbles before he slides his hands beneath Stiles's ass, lifting him as he stands in one swift movement. He deposits Stiles on the table and cuts off his protest with a hard, brief kiss. “Stay,” he growls, and stalks over to the open pantry door.

 

Stiles takes the opportunity to strip out of the rest of his clothes, though he wishes he'd kept his underwear on when his bare ass hits the cool, smooth wood. He only has a moment to squirm, however, before Derek is back, a bottle of olive oil clutched in one hand, and Stiles only stops laughing when his back hits the table and Derek is sucking Stiles's tongue into his mouth.

 

It's only moments before Stiles is struggling to breathe properly, bucking up into the hand that Derek has wrapped around his cock, wide palm and long fingers and just shy of enough pressure. The tease of it has Stiles gasping, squirming as he tries to get more, tries to get Derek to touch him the way he needs. Instead of taking the hint, Derek pulls his mouth away, trailing it down Stiles's body and yes, yeah, okay, this works too.

 

Tongue and teeth and lips set to work in a maddening tease, skating over his stomach and thighs and the jut of his hipbones while Derek grasps his waist and tugs him towards the edge of the table. There's a suddenly slick finger sliding over his entrance when Derek's mouth finally wraps around his cock; Stiles lets out a shuddering sigh and spreads his legs as wide as he can manage, trying to thrust forward into both sensations at once. Derek's tongue twists as his finger finally presses inside, and when Stiles looks down it's to see that Derek's eyes are closed in concentration, his nose flaring each time his head lowers as he pulls in as much of Stiles's scent as he can manage.

 

As if he's felt the weight of Stiles's gaze, Derek's eyes open; Stiles manages to meet them for a handful of rapid heartbeats until it proves too much, and he lets his head fall back again with a groan and a muffled _thunk_ against the tabletop.

 

Stiles's mind becomes a haze of pleasure that's just shy of enough: the occasional burning stretch as Derek adds more fingers; his mouth, wet and clever as he keeps Stiles hard without letting him near the edge. Stiles thinks he might be making noises by now, but can't quite bring himself to care. It's Derek taking him apart like this, touching him the way he has in any number of fantasies that Stiles has always tried to deny having, and it's more than he can take and retain his sanity. He feels empty despite Derek's fingers pumping in and out of him, twisting and stretching and opening him up. He needs more—needs the weight of Derek's body over him, needs the firm press of him between his legs, needs to be able to grip and hold and feel for himself that this is _real_.

 

“Derek.” Stiles threads his hands through Derek's hair, the only part of him that he can reach, and tugs until Derek lifts his head. “Oh, shit,” Stiles breathes out; Derek's mouth is slick and red, still slightly swollen, and Stiles has to fight the urge to shove him back down so that he can finish what he started. Instead he keeps pulling, urging Derek up so that Stiles can suck the taste of himself off of his tongue. “I'm good, I'm ready. Come on. Come on, come on, _please_.”

 

“I don't have a condom.” Derek sucks Stiles's lower lip into his mouth, teeth scraping as he releases it. “Stiles, are you _sure_ —”

 

“Oh my god, _yes_ , now stop being such a fucking _tease_.”

 

Derek's eyes look dangerous when they meet Stiles's again; it's possible that Stiles should be concerned by how big a turn-on that is for him. He'll look into that later, when he's not busy holding out his hand to let Derek pour a pool of olive oil into his palm, taking in the rich, warm smell of it while Derek finally strips out of the last of his clothes. Stiles reaches down to stroke the thick oil over Derek's cock, and he can't help laughing a little under his breath. Derek's breathing is unsteady, but he still manages to cock an eyebrow, and a grin spreads over Stiles's face.

 

“Just remembering an article I read once about how olive oil is good for the skin. I feel like I'm giving your dick a beauty treatment.”

 

Derek groans, though he doesn't stop lifting Stiles's legs up to wrap loosely around his waist. “Are you constitutionally incapable of being serious?”

 

“It's possible.” Stiles's breath catches as the head of Derek's cock nudges against him, sliding over the rim where he's stretched loose and open. “You should . . . _ah_ , see what you can do about that.”

 

Derek's answer is to start pushing slowly inside, inch by careful inch, until Stiles makes a frustrated noise and tightens his legs, trying to pull him deeper. He knows that his strength isn't enough to budge Derek, but thankfully he seems willing enough to take the hint; he presses forward, one smooth, sharp thrust that brings his hips flush against Stiles's, and they stay like that for a moment, mouths brushing together in touches so light that Stiles doesn't even think they count as kisses.

 

Then Derek is moving—slow, _push-drag_ rolls of his hips that leave Stiles breathless, and his hands clutch and scratch at Derek's back as he moves to meet him as best he can. The table is too hard beneath him, slippery with sweat and a thin sheen of oil; he can't get traction, can only brace himself as best he can and hang on as Derek's thrusts start coming faster, harder, like he can lose himself in Stiles if he only keeps trying.

 

Stiles can't spare a hand for himself when he feels Derek's rhythm begin to falter. He just clings tighter, managing broken words of encouragement every few thrusts, as eager to feel Derek coming inside of him as he is for his own release. When he feels the base of Derek's cock begin to swell he lets out an eager noise, only to have it turn to protesting disappointment when Derek begins to pull back.

 

“No, no no no, come back.” Stiles tightens his legs again, trying to keep Derek inside. “What are you doing? Don't stop, _god_ , don't stop, what the fuck, Derek?”

 

“If I don't pull out now I won't be able to,” Derek grits out. His hips give another stuttering push forward of their own volition, and Stiles groans his approval. “Stiles—”

 

“Would you stop giving me, like, zero credit?” He manages to shift higher, clenching his muscles around Derek until he lets out a soft stream of curses. “My best friend's a werewolf; I've been fantasizing about _you_ since I was barely post-pubescent; do you think I haven't done my homework? Do you want to hear about all the times I've thought about this happening? Or do you just want to finish fucking me and have a heart-to-heart after your knot goes down?”

 

That seems to be all it takes to shred the last tattered threads of Derek's control; he grips Stiles's shoulders, and with a deep growl starts to fuck into him in earnest, hard thrusts that rattle Stiles's teeth and drive the air from his lungs. He hitches his legs higher, and the new angle has sparks suddenly sizzling up and down his spine as Derek's cock skims over his prostate. Derek is beginning to swell again, pushing deeper and deeper as he does, until finally with one last short, hard thrust and a deep groan, he's coming inside of him. It goes on for what feels like forever, filling Stiles's body, centering him where they're connected, where the base of Derek's knot is catching against his rim.

 

He feels impossibly full, stretched to the point of breaking, and doesn't realize that he's shaking until Derek rubs a warm, comforting hand over his stomach and he feels the tremors ease. Derek doesn't stop as Stiles relaxes, continuing with firm strokes, fingers splaying and contracting over his skin in a soothing rhythm. Stiles's legs start to slip and his hips shift with the movement; he feels Derek's knot tug hard against him, but this time his cock gives an interested twitch at the sensation. He's gone half-soft by now, but he starts to harden again as he moves deliberately, testing; when Derek's hand wraps around him he couldn't stop his groan of relief if he tried.

 

“That's it.” Derek's voice is soft and sated as he noses at Stiles's ear, at the side of his neck. “That's good. You look so good stretched around me, so good with my knot in you. Like you were made for this.” His hand moves faster, stroking and tugging. “Come for me, Stiles. Just let go.”

 

Three, four, five more strokes and Stiles does, coming with a strangled noise over Derek's hands and his own stomach, his body clenching and spasming around Derek's knot and setting off a sharp wave of aftershocks. Derek settles on top of him immediately, the mess of Stiles's release smearing between them, mouths meeting in a sloppy, unfocused kiss.

 

“Okay,” Stiles says when he can breathe again. As the pleasure begins to fade he's becoming increasingly aware of the state that he's in: covered in sweat and oil and semen, sore muscles protesting the unyielding table beneath him. His tailbone aches, and he doesn't even want to begin to think about how he probably smells. “Next time, definitely: bed. With actual lube, and pillows, and a mattress that isn't made of wood.” He shifts a little, as best he can, and his stomach flutters as Derek's knot tugs at him again. “So, uh. How long does this usually last?”

 

“Fifteen minutes.” Derek's forehead is resting against the curve of Stiles's shoulder. “Maybe half an hour. You're not comfortable?”

 

“I'm covered in my own bodily fluids and pinned to the kitchen table by over two-hundred pounds of werewolf, what do you think?”

 

“You're the one who insisted on me fucking you in the kitchen instead of going upstairs.” Derek nips at Stiles's jaw. “Hold onto me.”

 

“Why, you think cuddling will make my leg cramps go away?”

 

“Can you just do this _one thing_ without arguing?”

 

“Fine, fine.” It's not like it's a hardship, really, wrapping himself around Derek. There's a sudden movement, Derek's hands sliding under him to cup his ass again, and then Derek is hauling him up until they're both upright. “ _Ah_. Um.”

 

“We're going upstairs,” Derek says, and starts to make his way out of the kitchen.

 

“Fu- _uck._ ” Each step has Derek shifting inside of him, stimulating oversensitive nerve endings until Stiles can't tell if he's being taken apart by pleasure or pain. “You're bossy, do you know that?” He snorts. “Of course you do, Mr. _I'm-the-Alpha_ ; bossiness is like your stock-in-trade.” He buries his face in Derek's neck, trailing a lazy line of bites and kisses across his skin while he's there. “You're lucky I love you enough to put up with it.”

 

He can feel Derek's chest rise and fall in a deep breath, and he's gathered closer yet.

 

“I know.” He gives Stiles's ass a quick squeeze. “You ready for the stairs?”

 

Stiles lets out a despairing moan, but nods. “Bring it on.”

 

 

*****

 

 

Stiles isn't quite asleep when he feels Derek stir behind him, feels the arm draped over his side curl into a gentle grip. Soft lips rest against the nape of his neck, over the bruise that Derek bit into the flesh there there over an hour ago.

 

“I love you, too.”

 

The words are felt more than heard, breathed against his skin like a secret promise. He leans back into it, sleep-warm and sated, and smiles warmly. Eventually, he knows, Derek will say the words without having to pretend to believe that Stiles is asleep. In the meantime, Stiles can be patient.

 

They have plenty of time.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, please feel free to follow me on Tumblr, where you can find me under the name hungrylikethewolfie. ^_^ Lots and lots of Teen Wolf shenanigans these days, as well as an insight into my writing process. (If you have a hankering to watch someone have a mental breakdown over her inability to slap fictional characters, it's totally the place to be.)

**Author's Note:**

> As always, if you enjoy werewolves (and/or superheroes, mythology, monsters, politics, Tom Hiddleston, and shiny things in general) you should follow me on Tumblr! There you will find all these things AND MORE. Plus you can get a behind-the-scenes look at my writing process, which admittedly tends to consist of me bitching about what I'm working on at any given moment.


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